In an effort to raise consciousness regarding the origin of the revered food that regularly graces our bountiful table, I decided to trace much of my Thanksgiving feast back to its natural state.  The quest detailed herein focuses on the journey of the turkeys with supporting star mentions going out to spectacular sides as well; Tom Tom couldn’t have done it alone.  Tom Tom is the celebrity-inspired collective name for both of our Thanksgiving turkeys.  Since they’re on the smaller side we needed two, and can you really think of a better name for the two preening Toms we hand-selected from a local organic farm? If so, leave it in the “comments” section of this post :) 

The story of Tom Tom starts with Craigslist- that’s where everyone goes to find a free-range, organically fed Thanksgiving turkey *caveat- still alive, right? I put out a few feelers to the more reputable ads that listed turkeys for sale, hoping someone would let me come out and be a part of the process.  Plenty of folks were willing to let me take a live one home, but after the great October chicken massacre on my in-city back deck, I was really hoping to do the deed at the farm.  Logistics aside, I also felt that the birds would be less distressed if we removed them from the world surrounded by nature, rather than after a jarring car ride back to an urban flat.  After a bit of nudging, I found a farm called ER Properties who said we could come on out to aid in their processing at 11 am November 23^rd. That is T-minus 3 days to Turkey day.  With my big brining and drying plans, I thought it was cutting it a bit close, but that was the option I was left with, so I set the date. 

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It’s quite a stretch to go from turning up your snout at swinery and slathering dry cure on a pork belly, let me tell you.  Why the sudden change of heart? It wasn’t so sudden, really, kind of like conquering the final frontier, which for me happened to be pork.  I slipped out of lifelong vegetarianism a few years back, but always viewed the swine side of life as a jiggly pink world I wasn’t much interested in until recently.  I made a personal commitment not to be so squeamish about foods I perceived that I “didn’t like” in order to expand my culinary horizons.  When I get a notion in my head I tend to go after it with the tenacity of a pit viper, much to the annoyance of those around me who have had the great pleasure to accompany me on a 12 hour shopping marathon, for instance.  Once I embraced pork I had an awful lot of catching up to do, from pulled pork to tenderloins, prosciutto to pancetta.

The apparent holy grail of pork is bacon, and Jonas couldn’t have been happier that I was finally eating it, hence cooking it for him.  I’m not sure his happiness transferred fully the day I walked through the door with a 6 lb slab of pork belly, but when I told him of the projected bacon yield, he forgot all about the smelly raw belly and what compromised refrigerator space it would bring.  I lathered it up good and dirty with a mixture inspired by Michael Ruhlman in his inimitable book Charcuterie, but with some noticeable Linda-isms thrown in for flair.

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I finally broke down and bought a crock pot.  I can actually technically say crock pot, since crock pot is a proprietary term coined by Rival, the company who started the craze back in 1971, and that’s the brand I’ve got in my meaty clutches.   I had very little desire for one of these contraptions until we had a horrendous week-long heat wave in Seattle last July.  Since it’s Seattle and we hold steady in the temperate high 70’s for most of the summer, no one owns an air conditioner.  Consequently when the heat wave hit, everyone was ducking for cover in malls, lakes, pools, even staying late and arriving early at the office each day since a/c is like a mandate in the corporate office building world. 

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Looking for a quick antipasto platter that uses a selection of fall flavors from cross-cultures? I am your woman today.  I’m serving up a bit of prosciutto direct from Parma, Italy.  What’s always nice with prosciutto? Many say melon, but it’s November for god sakes- no hostess worth her mostest would dare bust out a Chilean-grown locavore-ignorant cantaloupe this time of year! No, has to be something seasonal, complementary, well-paired but not well-played out.  Since I am also big on alliteration, I opted to pair my prosciutto with persimmon- take that my lovely Italian traditionalist amici!  Plus, the fuyu persimmons look so good right now they make me straight-woozy in the knees inamorata, so there you have it. 

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How many reinventions can the classic BLT sandwich undergo? This version, while not your typical rendition, certainly packs a punch in the department of deliciousness.  My new favorite thing is blind gelato tastings; it’s amazing the flavors people think they’re eating, and when you break down and tell them the actual taste, the look on their faces tends to be photo-worthy.   With the BLT redux I did everything I could to make it obvious what we were eating.  The hardest part was the bread.  I finally settled upon shortbread cookies cut into squares and dipped in chocolate around the edges so as to resemble crust.  The color of each flavor turned out remarkably akin to their natural-state counterparts, yes, the frozen BLT is something to behold. 

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There is a new trend sweeping the catering nation and I am all for it.  We’ve all been there; you’re at a wedding juggling a glass of wine, your overly-crammed purse (you brought the cute little one that matches your shoes, but it can’t possibly hold even half your necessary arsenal- that’s what your husband’s pockets are for!), and the ornate wedding program you’re trying desperately to hang on to though know in your heart of hearts it won’t make it past the champagne toast before it’s carelessly tossed on the buffet table so you can get out on the dance floor and bring “Sexy Back.”  Just as you’re wishing you had a third hand, a waiter comes by with a tray of salmon caviar toasts.  They look innocent enough so you somehow find a way to shift your possessions to make room for the little delicacy.  Once you’ve got it in your hand (of course you forgot to grab a napkin) what looked like one bite on the tray suddenly seems like stuffing Mount Everest inside Moby Dick.  There is no way to eat this daintily because if you bite it in half you’ll get crumbs everywhere, but if you try to shove in the whole thing you’ll be out of commission chewing down your blowfish cheeks for five minutes.  Frustrated, you pass it off to your husband and decide to seek out another drink; if you can’t eat you might as well screw up enough liquid courage to not care what you look like doing the Running Man to YMCA later, right?

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