The roasting took place in a Boston University apartment on Commonwealth Avenue. I don't remember who was there. Perhaps my roommate from Greece. Maybe some other Coal Region ex-pats who didn't make the journey home that holiday.
I do remember that I never removed the bag of giblets before roasting.
It's not something I would have thought to do. And my mother didn't say, "Oh, hey, by the way - there will be a paper sack full of turkey organs tucked inside the turkey. Remember to removed it before cooking."
I mean, I thought the whole idea behind getting someone else to do the slaughtering and disemboweling was so there wouldn't be a moment when you had to handle a turkey liver. Or a heart.
My mother tells me that she chops up the organs, sautes them, and then hides them in the stuffing. (Or filling, depending on how much Pennsylvania Dutch ya have in ya.)
I tell her that every time she reminds me of this, I have to pay $100 to a hypnotist to make me forget. Because my mom's turkey filling (or stuffing, don't ever call it dressing) is so delicious that even PETA sends her a waiver, noting that most turkeys are despicable and grumpy and kinda deserve what they get. P.S.Don't tell anyone.
And one time, Howard Zinn was drunk at a party and confessed to a co-ed that although he did not celebrate Thanksgiving due to his moral outrage at the general cultural relativism which excuses inexcusable atrocities, he was also a tart for my mom's home cooking.
So yeah. Giblets. Eww. But yum.
Anyway, this is a photo of the second turkey I roasted - this time, in an apartment on Beacon Hill in Boston, Massachusetts.
Well, it's the carcass, anyway.
Can you guess what year this might have been?
(Hint: Look at the hair. My friend is not being ironic.)
I'm actually surprised that I have a photo that so nearly matches a NaBloPoMo suggestion on such a weird topic.
Actually, I'm kinda not surprised.