Burn Barrel Thanksgiving Breakfast

I’m sitting in front of a burn barrel on Thanksgiving morning writing on my Alphasmart word processor with a crackling fire comprised of driftwood gathered from Oregon’s socialist ocean beaches and half a bag of charcoal. Inside the burn barrel rests a turkey, the first one I will have ever attempted to cook. Why try inside a burn barrel where you can’t control the temperature? A homeless man in Oregon City told me he cooked his turkeys this way, at least since he’d become homeless. So yeah, a writer’s conceit, but why not? Sometimes doing something for a story works out. If the bird fails, and I’m not sanguine about its chances, then the crows will feast on the front yard.

I wrapped the stuffed and sauteed (butter, sage and Calvados!) turkey in roasting pans and set the contraption on a raised grill rigged up via cinder block at the bottom of the burn barrel. I had cut off the hinged lid of my conventional charcoal barbecue to cover the burn barrel. Ingenious or half ass? There is such a thing as both at the same time.

The idea is to cook the bird for three hours (that’s what my step father told me, although he was referring to a conventional oven at 350 degrees. The other idea is that I will sit here, tend the fire, drink wine and write for three hours, and get a 10,000-word novella out of the experience.

Elmer is snoozed out after two long walks earlier this morning, including one at Bastendorff Beach where I met a nice family of Christians and their dogs from Medford who were RV camping for the holidays and staging a feast for 34 people. I admire that. They are making community and not sitting on their asses watching football, although I’m sure they can watch in their RVs.

I’m drinking red wine. Hey, it’s a holiday. This is my first Thanksgiving without my father.

My morning began with a brief conservation with a young homeless woman who lives with two small dogs out of her sedan in the neighborhood. She was outside her rig and I asked if she wanted some dog food that made Elmer allergic. She said yes and thanked me. I’ll drop it by later, and maybe a leftover Thanksgiving meal if the turkey succeeds.

I need to check the turkey, but not sure how because of the intense heat. It’s been a little over 30 minutes since the cooking began.

I made my mom’s cornbread stuffing recipe yesterday in the crock pot she gave me when I moved out 40 years ago. It still works. I’ve mastered how to cook with it. I nailed the stuffing. So at least there is that and some mashed potatoes.

I’ve got to check the bird. I glove up and remove the lid. The smell smells right. But the heat! This is way hotter than 350 degrees. I stare.

The roasting pans are split, and partially melted. I pry open the pans with a barbecue fork. The bird is completely burned black all the way around! All the saute fixins have evaporated, so have the vegetables!

Elmer comes over to sniff.

The crows will thank me!

But wait. What’s under the crispy black interior? Did anything survive?

I spear the bird with considerable might and it splits open. STEAMING, BUBBLING SUCCULENCE! I tear off a hunk and nearly burn my hands. I break the hunk in half and feed myself and Elmer.

Delicious. Not dry. Not wet. Perfect!

I have crozzled (it’s an ancient Cormac McCarthy verb from The Road) a Thanksgiving turkey. It’s a blackened Calvados Thanksgiving turkey! A fancy Portland restaurant would charge $59.99 a plate.

It took 37 minutes for the bird to cook, if cook is the word.

I spear the turkey and bring it inside. Elmer and I will be eating Thanksgiving breakfast at 10:49 am. The Lions game is on. I feel great.

And the homeless woman will get a big plate in several hours. (Which actually happened.)