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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We were waiting for our burritos to come up at the neighborhood taco truck when we noticed a curious business operating out of a van parked next door.   It turns out that every Saturday some local Vietnamese farmers load their chicken coop into the back of their van and park on the corner of Martin Luther King Wy and Othello St. They vend live hens, cocks and turkeys, leaving the neck-wringing up to their grateful patrons.  Jonas wanted to take a peek just so he could show Bentley the furry fowl, but I had other designs.  I started eating meat six years ago after a 20 year hiatus.  I decided when I was a small child and my father slaughtered my beloved pet cow, Slobber that meat just wasn’t for me.  In my early 20’s I started relaxing my rules, first with the introduction of fish, then chicken, beef, and just in the last couple of months, pork- the final frontier.  I still have huge reverence for animals and I really appreciate meat when I eat it, but I’ve always been a “take the bull by the horns” kind of girl, and I feel that buying a nicely-packaged disembodied chicken breast at Whole Foods is sort of a copout.  If I’m going to fully embrace this whole meat thing, I should be comfortable going from farm to table, right? 

To make a long story short, we drove home with a live chicken pecking her way around my trunk.  I posted a quick video on facebook of the chicken purchase and asked my friends if anyone had any experience with the inevitable next step.  I was shocked at the squeamishness of many folks who I know to eat meat on a daily basis.  It really reaffirmed what I was doing- if the animal is going to give their life for my pleasure, the least I can do is be able to stomach the process, and if I cannot, perhaps I don’t belong amongst the carnivorous denizens after all. 

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Next time you find yourself cruising South Genessee Street, stop into Flying Squirrel. If the Herb Alpert Pizza is on the menu that night, don’t hesitate to order it.  Follow it with a Molly Moon’s Salted Caramel Ice Cream Sandwich. You can thank me later!

You may have noticed that here at Salty Seattle, we have a wee obsession with- you guessed it- SALT.  I pretty much think it’s the salt of the earth, I want to be its Salty Dog, and I sometimes don’t know if I’m worth(y) of my salt.  I know there are other saltophiles out there, however unfashionable it may be to admit it in our Atkins-crazed flavorless society, and I say, let’s unite! We should join together as exemplars of the movement back to good taste and simpler times, and what could be simpler than salt-making?

It was one of those AHA! moments I had a few weeks back that I just couldn’t shake- “Linda- must make salt. Must make salt soon.” What started as a little tickle in the back of my cerebellum quickly grew into a full-blown mania- the chanting voices in my head would not be calmed until a cauldron of oceanwater was brewing on my Bertazzoni.   I did a fair amount of research on water quality of various points of the Pacific Ocean, and decided that my collection point should be at Ocean Shores- some three hours drive from my humble abode perched atop Mt. Baker in the heart of Seattle.  I thought long and hard about how to coerce Jonas into spending more than six hours in the car on a rare day off (with a teething baby Bentley and a mother-in-law who won’t admit to hearing loss, no less) and I decided that AMBUSH was the best tactic. 

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Sitka and Spruce has been at the top of my very short list of must-try Seattle establishments for countless moons.  While I can make excuses galore about why I haven’t managed to venture in for crudités until now, the real reason is the façade.  Every time I drive by, a little wave of excitement bubbles up inside until I see Subway slinging sandwiches next door and my pitter-pattering heart halts with a shudder.  I honestly cannot figure out why on earth Sitka and Spruce is quaintly nestled between a drycleaner and a franchise sub shop in a dinghy stripmall circa 1992, but I no longer care. 

The place reminds me of high school gym class.  In the beginning of a semester you were supposed to demonstrate your lack of prowess in any number of demeaning athletic activities, only to improve over the course of several months until at the end of the class you were doing back-flips off the high beam.  I would always deliberately underwhelm Mr. Tinker, the Green Beret dropout-cum Gym teacher on the first day.  That way, when I would progress 300% by the final coup de grâce I could ensure myself at least one A+ on my frequently questionable report card.  Sitka and Spruce is much the same in the sense that you are not blown away at first glance, but once inside things just keep getting better and better until you leave bursting at the seams of satisfaction and blissfully intent to return again soon. 

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