Our turkey came out of the oven as firm and brown as if she'd been sunbathing on the Isle of Capri instead of roasting in San Francisco.
The roasting pan was covered in yucky looking but yummy tasting drippings. (Sidenote: I love that the French call the brown bits stuck to a pan "fond." It's so much more elegant sounding than "drippings.")
The turkey also yielded a large quantity of intensely flavored, amber-colored juices.
Tejal luuuuves juices.
I made a roux with the fat and drippings, added some of my 2 1/2 gallons of turkey stock, the reserved juices and some white wine to make the gravy. I also added some of the wine directly from the bottle to myself. Lucky for my reputation, no one got a picture of that.
It was Glyn's first Thanksgiving, but nevertheless, he was in charge of carving the turkey. He did an admirable job. We all told him that he had progressed far up the ladder of American Maleness with that single, classicaly macho act.
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