THE TASTIEST TURKEY SOUP
/I have never liked turkey soup.
A lot of my friends, the day after Thanksgiving, they boil the carcass, throwing in armloads of parsley, thyme, maybe a diced onion or limp celery stalk. Then, after straining the unsightly brothy mess, they add chopped up turkey meat, a whole lot of rice, a carrot or two, and call that turkey soup.
With all that flotsam and jetsam, it looks like low tide at Gooch’s Beach after a wicked Nor’easter. Tastes like it too. But I had a revelation!
This past September I played in a fun golf tournament at Webhannet called the Turkey Trot. Amazingly, our team won! Okay, not for low gross or net, not even closest to the pin, but for BEST COSTUME. Our autumnal-hued tutus and turkey hats won the day. (For costumes, anyway….)
Our prize? One frozen 20-pound turkey for the team.
But here’s the deal about the team: Betty only cooks popcorn, Donna T. speed-dials carry-out most nights, Donna M.’s kitchen on Drake’s Island is tinier than a postage stamp. So they looked at me with hope. “Oh sure,” I said. “I’ll cook us a turkey dinner! No problem.”
We gathered together a few nights ago and ate our prize. We enjoyed all the trimmings — mashed potatoes and gravy, Brussels sprouts with bacon, cornbread stuffing and cranberry sauce, apple pie and a moist, flavorful Tom roasted to perfection.
After they left (toting tupperware containers loaded with leftovers and sliced turkey), Mr. Wonderful and I looked at our kitchen counters piled high with gravy-slathered plates and more wine glasses than Stag’s Leap features in a Napa tasting. I suggested he start by carving the whole damn bird so I could …. I could …. what?
I sat on a kitchen stool and googled “turkey soup” on my iPhone. I found an interesting recipe that suggested I pick apart the bird, including the skin and all that gooey stuff that clings tenaciously to the bottom of the roasting pan, and put the whole situation in a crockpot.
“Then,” the recipe said, “pour chicken broth to the brim and let it bubble all night long.”
When we woke the next morning, the entire house smelled like Thanksgiving. Even our cat Sunshine was in a serotonin sedated state, stretched out on the floor just below the simmering crock pot. Purring.
I was still unconvinced this would be anything but unpalatable. But I followed the directions.
After straining and cooling the broth, then skimming off the fat, I poured the liquid into a large soup cauldron, added chopped celery and onions, a few diced carrots, plus a slew of white and dark meat and a handful of thyme from my withering herb garden out back. When it came to a boil, the soup actually smelled delicious. It tasted even better when I added two cups of cooked orzo.
i now have enough soup in the freezer to take me through Valentine’s Day. I’ve delivered some to housebound friends recovering from Covid. Mr. Wonderful declared it’s the best soup he’s ever had. I agree.
What happened? Was it the prized turkey? Our fabulous costumes? The nearly-comatose thyme? The simmering crockpot? I haven’t a clue, but I give most credit to the slow cooker.
All I know is that I now adore turkey soup. Well, MY turkey soup anyway.
PS And yes, those tutus are not exactly slimming.
