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Firey new ways to liven up Thanksgiving

Settling the turkey kitchen wars once and for all

I think it was CBC Radio’s Shelagh Rogers who once commented that the cooking of the Thanksgiving turkey can cause family feuds that last generations. At the very least it can be the source of a few sticky moments or a good kitchen row before everyone sits down to eat.

Like when you go to check on the old bird, and you’re type A sister-in-law pushes you aside. She ditches her glass of wine for a salad fork and the bread knife to try and rotate the 22-pound sucker in a pan that’s way too small because your really big roasting pan is still down in the basement somewhere filled with the rest of the stuff you couldn’t get rid of at your last garage sale.

Oh nooooo, she instructs, you’ve got to cook it breast side down so it doesn’t dry out, ignoring the big swaths of skin that have already seared themselves onto the sides of the pan, so that after tugging and tugging old Tom finally gives way in a big shoosh, splashing brownish turkey fat and juices all over her Juicy Couture.

If you haven’t got the dressing made by the time everybody arrives, look out. This, if my addled memory serves me right, was the biggest source of friction in the Rogers clan, which was hotly divided on the inclusion of chestnuts or no.

Then there are the die-hard camps on, A) moisture levels: it has to be wetter – you made it really dry last year. No way, I hate gucky dressing. B) Seasoning: you’re putting in way too much marjoram and onion. Marjoram? Never, never use marjoram with turkey. It won’t stand up to it. And, C) mainstays: Did you use sausage? I love sausage. Gross, don’t you dare put any sausage in it – Jeremy won’t look at anything that’s even touched pork fat. Did somebody say organ meats? What the hell are organ meats?

At this point, you’d be well advised to grab your glass of wine and slink out to the deck for some fresh air and let the rest of them figure it out.

But somehow it all comes together and down you sit to a dinner that always seems to work out, no matter how things are done.

That is unless you were one of the two dozen or so unfortunate families in the U.S. last year whose homes burned down – in total or in part, sending dozens of people to hospital – because deep frying the turkey turned Thanksgiving into a really heated occasion.

When I first heard this story, I thought it was one of those urban myths, like cooking a salmon in your dishwasher. But turns out that while both are legitimate cooking options, deep fried turkeys are a really big deal, at least in the southern U.S., capital of everything fried. Even the likes of Martha Stewart and Emeril Lagasse have been touting the technique in the farther corners of North America where such culinary techniques are relatively unknown.

Sorry, but this is a bit of a reach for me. Just the thought of deep-frying Mars Bars is bad enough. But deep-fried turkeys? Come on. That’s worse than organ meats!

Never mind the health risks. Here’s the real hazard: the big, specially designed turkey fryers centre around tall aluminum or stainless steel vessels, much like giant stock pots, that hold five bloody gallons of oil. They’re heated by open-flame burners.

Oh, and did I mention that these units are pretty top heavy and tip over real easily? And they don’t have thermostat controls? You’re supposed to use a candy thermometer to make sure the oil reaches 350 F. No wonder Underwriters Laboratories refuses to certify any turkey fryers for safety.

Then there are the people factors. Nice dry wooden decks are popular places for set up (don’t forget it’s pretty balmy in the southern U.S. at Thanksgiving, even American Thanksgiving), as are garages or the middle of family festivities in the kitchen.

Compound that with the fact that eager chefs seem to forget to allow for the displacement factor involved in immersing a 15-pound bird into hot oil. Have you ever seen how fast oil can turn into a fireball once it spills over the side of a pot and hits an open flame? As for that old maxim about oil and water not mixing that everybody learned in Grade 5 science, well, that seems to go right up in smoke too, as happy hosts who later get to know way more about their local burn ward than they’d like to lower big old turkeys that are partially frozen or dripping with marinades into the burbling hot oil bath.

If, after considering all of the above, you’re still brave enough to try this, um, somewhat unorthodox approach to cooking your Thanksgiving turkey, please at least take the advice of the Underwriters Laboratories: deep fry your turkey in an open setting and place it on a non-flammable level surface, such as grass, gravel or concrete (if you don’t mind oil stains on your driveway). Use long, heavy-duty oven mitts to protect your hands and forearms, and safety goggles to keep splattering hot oil out of your eyes. And keep a fire extinguisher nearby.

In all fairness, though, there are a couple of upsides to deep-frying your turkey. Converts say the meat is moist and not at all greasy (just make sure you heat it to an internal temperature of 180 F). Plus it only takes about three minutes per pound to cook and your oven will be freed up for all those other Thanksgiving goodies.

And maybe the biggest bonus: it’s impossible to stuff a deep-fried turkey so you won’t have to worry whether it’s chestnut or sausage dressing, moist or dry.

But there’s something else I should mention. One recipe warns that when you haul the bird out of the bubbly cauldron, be prepared: the wings might be burnt little nubbins and the skin blacker than a witch’s cat on Halloween.

On second thought, I hope you go for it and tell me all about it – the expectant faces round the dining table turned toward the door as you enter, your nice white chef’s apron scorched in just a couple of places, safety goggles pushed up on your sweaty forehead, proudly carrying the piece de resistance – a big blackened cinder ball that will have them all talking for years.

Glenda Bartosh is an award-winning freelance writer who still puts sage in her turkey dressing.