Thanksgiving 2023

Thanksgiving Solo: 15 Pounds of Turkey, Caul Fat, and Why I Always Save Room for the Sandwich

It's 6 AM on Thanksgiving morning. Everyone's still asleep. And I'm standing in the kitchen, pulling a 15-pound turkey out of the brine it's been sitting in all night.

This is my favorite part of the year. Not just because of the food - though yeah, the food is incredible - but because this is MY project. I cook Thanksgiving solo every single year. No help. No co-chefs. Just me, a plan, and a kitchen full of ingredients.

Let's do this.

The Night Before: Brining and Beans

Wednesday night is when it all starts. The turkey goes into the brine - water, salt, sugar, herbs. I throw in fresh rosemary, thyme, bay leaves, peppercorns. The whole bird gets submerged in this aromatic bath and sits in the fridge overnight.

But that's not all. While the turkey brines, the Boston baked beans go into the oven. Low temperature. REALLY low. Like 225°F. They cook overnight - six, seven, eight hours. The navy beans break down slowly, absorbing all that molasses, brown sugar, and pork fat. By morning, they're soft, sweet, savory, and absolutely PERFECT.

This is the Boston way. You can't rush baked beans. You just can't.

The Bird: Caul Fat Changes Everything

Here's where I do something most people don't: I wrap the turkey in caul fat.

Into the oven at 450°F. High heat. This is controversial - most people roast turkey low and slow. But I want that SKIN. That golden, crackling, impossibly crispy skin first.

Forty-five minutes at 450°F. That's it.

Caul fat is that lacy, web-like fat that surrounds pig organs. Sounds weird. Looks like white netting. But it's a GAME CHANGER for roasting poultry.

Why? Because turkey dries out. Everyone knows this. That's why people baste constantly, cover with foil, do elaborate butter rubs. But caul fat? It naturally bastes the bird as it renders. The fat melts slowly, keeping the meat moist while the skin gets CRISPY.

I wrap the whole 15-pound turkey in caul fat. No basting needed. No foil tents. Just wrap it, put it in the oven, and let physics do its thing. Let cook bird with lower temperature again until it gets done.

The caul fat renders. The skin bronzes. The herbs on top - rosemary, thyme - crisp up and become aromatic. When I pull it out, the turkey looks like something from a magazine. Golden. Glistening. PERFECT.

The Spread: Everything From Scratch

While the turkey rests, I finish everything else.

Green beans - blanched, then sautéed with butter and garlic. Brussels sprouts - roasted until the outer leaves are crispy. Lentils cooked with aromatics. Roasted carrots - multiple colors because why not make it beautiful? Sweet potatoes. Cranberry sauce - homemade, not from a can. Gravy made from the drippings.

And the bread. Oh, the BREAD.

My wife made sourdough the night before. Let it rise overnight. Baked it this morning. The smell of fresh bread mixing with roasting turkey? That's Thanksgiving.

The whole spread covers the kitchen island. Cast iron pans. Dutch ovens. Roasting trays. It looks chaotic but it's orchestrated. Everything finishes at the same time.

The Meal: Saving Room for What Matters

Here's what happens every year: people arrive, see the spread, and immediately start loading their plates. They get EXCITED. They pile on everything. Brussels sprouts, sweet potatoes, three servings of stuffing, extra gravy, more cranberry sauce.

And then they're FULL. Uncomfortably full. Before they've really appreciated the turkey.

Not me. I've learned.

I take moderate portions. I taste everything. I enjoy the meal. But I'm strategic. Because I know what's coming after dinner.

The turkey sandwich.

The Real Main Event

After everyone's gone into their food comas, after the kitchen calms down, I pull out my homemade sourdough. Slice it thick. Layer on turkey - white meat and dark meat together. Add cranberry sauce. Maybe some of that gravy. A little salt. That sandwich? THAT'S the moment I cook Thanksgiving for.

Not the formal dinner. Not the perfectly plated meal. The sandwich. The next-level turkey sandwich on bread my wife made, with a bird I brined and roasted, eaten in a quiet kitchen after the chaos ends.