I stand 5ft2inches in my stockinged feet. Knee-high to a grasshopper, my granddad said. Bumps her arse when she steps off the sidewalk, my dad said. The bird must have been about half my height. And he was weighty with it. Almost 4kgs; more than my daughter’s birth-weight.
My husband suggested, this past weekend, I do a trial run of Christmas lunch; two of our expected guests are chefs and I have never cooked a turkey before. I emailed, telephoned, Facebooked, consulted all my books … I was well-informed and ready.
My stuffing was a thing of great beauty: the innards of a lovely brown loaf, cranberries, onions, herbs and brandy … things were looking good. But holding four kilograms of chilly, naked Mister T with one hand proved a trial; he wouldn’t stay still; as I stuffed he slid around until there was nothing for it but to hug him to my chest while I filled his cavity.
Quite dirty by now, I took handfuls of pineapple jam and chopped ginger and gave his skin a good rubbing, then studded him with plums. Into the oven he went, with my perfectly calculated weight-per-minute roasting time calculations.
With great excitement we carved up and served. With great regret we discussed Plan B for Christmas lunch. The turkey was fine; moist and tasty. But it was just fine. And I want something more than fine for Christmas.
I know what wine we’ll have with dessert though …
Aletta from TASTE magazine says: “If the reds were girls, the Cape Jazz would have to be the slutty one… it goes with everything!”