I love Dee in the kitchen. It means something mouthwatering will emerge, usually with rice and a sauce. He brings home various kinds of roasts and cuts of meat very early every Saturday, along with springs of rosemary, sage, and some secret concoction of rubbing spices. First he massages the meat into submission and gives it a perfect wrap, then entices it into the steam bath, (reminds me of Spa Day), and puts the lid on. Soon aromas start wafting through the whole house, and I find drool rolling down my chin before he calls me in. The table is set, veggies are decoratively arranged, along with condiments, bakery fresh bread, and a chilled beverage served in an iced glass straight from the freezer.
He's famous for his marinated Thanksgiving Turkey. He gives it an overnight brine soak, stuffs it with a garden of herbs and spices, and a lemon, and then roasts away. Before it is done he pops in a stick of butter, turns it over so the melted butter will invade every crevasse and lets it soak in for an hour. The turkey melts in your mouth.
Dee's turkeys are treated so well after death that the intelligent ones volunteer for duty. Their memory is passed down and remembered in better fashion than long gone relatives. "Remember Aunt Nina Bee?" "Not really...did she kind of smell?" doesn't hold up to "Remember the turkey of '99? She was so plumb, so juicy...she held her butter and let it ooze at just the proper moment. Her breast...soaked in salt water to give it firmness and texture, and her rosemary perfume made you want to lick the skin..." "Honey, don't talk about tasty breasts that way in front of the kids..."
Dee speaks of the tender treatment he gives his meat. It's an honor to loose your innocence to him. He knows how to make it a sweet moment of surrender as he tucks them in with sweet onions, soft potato layers...and then pours a sweet brown sugar/Ginger Ale glaze to coat them in silk. He's not called Mr. Meat for nothing.
Can you tell I'm starving?? I'm hoping his early trip to the market tomorrow morning (he gets there before they start setting up their stalls) will net us sweet juicy corn, peaches, tomatoes, and a roast that will delight in joining us for dinner as the guest of honor. If they're lucky, our guest cuts of meat hear their life stories as they're passed around the table. "Oh, the Epperson's owned that land starting in 1860 and all their animals lived on the bottom floor of their home, to give them heat. They had a big bull they brought it"...It's always nice to be sure of your paternity before you're chosen for your last supper. In Mr. Meat's loving crock pot, you'll drift away in an aroma of sweet onions, garlic, with a melted butter mask that will sooth your breaking heart. The last words you'll hear will be..."This is fantastic, so tender, it melts in your mouth"...and you will see that you have died to give others a better life...like a soldier. Be proud. It's an honorable way to reach the measure of your creation.
And it's an honorable way for us to push the boundaries of our own, and then vow to go pick on vegetables for a while and let the turkeys alone; perhaps become Flexitarians for a month or so (while Mr. Turkey gets plumper and juicier for our next cooking adventure in Mr. Meat's kitchen.)
I started this post about the trend of faux animal skins on shoes. I couldn't get past my hunger and I turned it into another use of our animal friends. My writing may not inspire the rest of you, but I think I'll make a midnight McDonald's run. Shall I bring you some fries?