So, there we were—Jim, me, and The Bird That Time Forgot. This wasn’t a turkey anymore. This was a monument. A protein-based landmark.
We’d already roasted the 20-pounder for Thanksgiving, and he was big enough to require a minor pulley system and a kitchen cleared of all breakables. But now it was time for the Christmas turkey. Time to face the beast. The 39-pounder.
Step one was figuring out how to defrost something that could double as a footstool. We put it in the fridge. It laughed at us. Three days later, it was still solid enough to stop a truck. I started to Google, “how to thaw a turkey without a blowtorch or divine intervention.”
Eventually, we just hauled it into the tub like we were giving Shamu a spa day. Five hours and fifteen gallons of water later, it was thawed—ish. Close enough. I wasn’t about to wait for spring.
Now for the oven.
After some deliberation and the threat of power tools, I realized that roasting this turkey whole was a dream best left to people with commercial kitchen-grade equipment or a live-in team of engineers. So, we spatchcocked it. (Yes, that’s a real word. No, I didn’t make it up—look it up. Yes, I laughed every time I said it.)
Jim got out the garden loppers—I wish I were kidding—and after a few heave-ho! moments that probably violated some sort of turkey Geneva Convention, we splayed it out flatter than a Sunday newspaper.
Roasting it still required rotating it halfway through with the teamwork and precision of a NASA launch. Basting involved a mop. And when it was done? Oh, baby. It was glorious. Golden. Juicy. Impossibly large. Like carving a mythical beast with a bad attitude.
We fed 14 people, sent leftovers home in gallon bags, and still had enough turkey left to start a soup kitchen. We had turkey sandwiches, turkey stew, turkey pot pie, turkey omelets, turkey quesadillas, turkey smoothies (okay, that one was an accident), and I still hear gobbling in my sleep.
So, the next time someone says, “Oh, a turkey that size must be such a blessing!” you can tell them this: Blessings don’t usually require power tools, back support belts, and a signed liability waiver.
Happy Holidays, friends. And remember—just because you can grow a turkey that big… doesn’t mean you should, unless you’re looking to combine dinner with a full-body workout and a minor existential crisis.
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