On Stuffing (and Stuffing, Ad Nauseum)

It's Christmas time, and with the season comes the inevitable onslaught of food-blog-world posts about spice cakes and green bean casseroles and pumpkin pies and candied yams and unwanted distant relations. The web is awash with hand-made candy cane recipes, tips on super alcoholic eggnog, and instructions for the construction of quaint papier-mâché stocking stuffers. The entire internet universe, it seems, has descended into a holly and jingle-bell hell, which you, the consumer, are meant to download, gobble up, wrap up, and serve up on Christmas morning.

I, a blogger unwilling to buck the general trend, am gleefully throwing my hat into the ring for this week's post. Call it my Christmas gift to you all. Sit back ye merry-makers, rest thine steins of mulled wine on thine distended bellies whilst I regale thee with a yuletide tale. I want to talk about a specific type of good, old-fashioned, hot-blooded, American, holiday gluttony: the turducken.

For those of you outside of America who may not know: a turducken is a roast made up a a turkey stuffed with a duck which is, in turn, stuffed with a chicken. All the bones are, of course, removed, and often sausage meat is used as a space filler. For those of you inside America who may not know: turducken has become an international symbol of American excess; so much so that it is a punchline and many people don't actually believe the dish exists. However, exist it does, and has since the early Eighties. As with most things bad for you, it originated in the South of America and spread to the North (not unlike those killer fire ants I keep reading about).

Allow me a complaint. Let's talk about the name: turducken. It is unequivocally atrocious. End of discussion.

Oscar Wilde once wrote: “America is the only country that went from barbarism to decadence without civilization in between.” He could have easily been talking about the country's culinary history for all the transition between meagre beginnings to ridiculous excess. And this monstrosity of a roast might just be the golden example of that excess.



Wait.

If you are one of those European types who like to quietly shake your head at the sorry state of culinary America, well, wipe that smirk off your face. Turducken is actually your fault. Allow me to explain.

The tradition of the multi-bird roast, or the multi-animal roast, is deeply European. Specifically, I'm blaming Western Europeans – English, French, Italians – but that's only because I've not yet heard about the rest of you stuffing one animal inside another and another. I'll find you out. The whole affair can be traced back through (interestingly) the conservative Victorian era back to medieval times and beyond.

Honestly, implicit decadence aside, I love the idea of stuffing several animals inside each other and slow roasting them. I don't think that I am the only one. Sales of prepared turduckens in both the USA and England are rising nearly exponentially. Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall (whom, I must admit, I admire) recently prepared about a dozen birds, like so many Russian dolls, in a single roast. Rumor has it that it served over 100. I suspect that it's only a matter of time (thyme?) before that great lover of kitsch and opulence, Heston Blumenthal, gets a hold of this one and cooks it, sous vide, for a month, or some such. Mark my words.

You may be wondering: have I done it? Is this post a confession? Have I succumbed to the madness that is turducken?

And I answer: NO!

Not on your life. At least, not until next Christmas when I run out of things to write about and when I might also convince you that the concept is sound. Wait for it.



Still, I can't completely give up the idea. I like the concept of combining meats and, I should tell you, am annually conflicted about what I should be serving at that meal which aught, arguably, be the biggest feast of the year.

Namely the conflict can be reduced thus: ham or turkey? I love ham. It is the most superior of celebratory meats. Salty, fatty, sweet, a leg ham can satiate two dozen people. If there is a greater cut of holiday meat I probably can't afford it. On the other hand, there is turkey. Rich, flavorful, yet lighter than fatty ham; this bird carries with it the weight of a few hundred years of holiday meal tradition. While I can leave the breast, the legs of a turkey are so moist and flavorful and poultry-ific that I can't imagine Christmas lunch without them. What to do?

As a compromise, this Christmas I have attempted, like an alchemist, to combine the two greatest of yuletide meats: ham and turkey.

Turkey wrapped in ham? Ham studded with turkey? A turkey stuffed with a rare-breed, honey-glazed, leg ham? A pig, fed a whole turkey, then made into ham? Again: NO!

I've cured and smoked turkey legs in the style of ham. If I were in the States (and less self-conscious) I would be tempted to call my creation “Hamerky” or possibly “Turam.” Actually, on second thought, “Turam” is really bad. Scrap that. Scrap them both, since I'll get by without the Hallmark name.

All I know is that this is pretty delicious. It won't feed dozens of people, but the few select, “real” friends you have around to share this will really appreciate it.



Turkey Leg Ham With Muscatel Relish

This is very tasty indeed. It has all the qualities of a good turkey leg as well as the salty sweetness of a ham. The muscatel relish takes the place of cranberry sauce because I love the honey quality of the dried grapes, but the traditional turkey accompaniment would go nicely here.

1 large turkey leg, thigh bone removed (mine was a massive 2.2 kilos)

For the brine:
2 liters water
25g pink salt (sodium nitrate)
160g dark brown sugar
90g sea salt flakes
50g table salt
100 g honey
100g maple syrup
4 Tbsp juniper berries, lightly toasted
2 Tbsp black peppercorns, lightly toasted
5 bay leaves

Combine all the ingredients of the brine and bring to a boil. Remove from heat and allow to cool completely. Soak the turkey in the brine, using a plate to keep it submerged. Keep it soaking 18 hours for every 500g of meat. In my case that meant nearly four days.

Remove the turkey from the brine and leave uncovered in the fridge over night. This step allows the skin to dry out a bit so that more smoke will stick to the meat.

Hot smoke for 2 hours. Remove from the smoker and brush with the maple glaze (below). Continue smoking until the internal temperature reaches 75ºC.

For the maple glaze:
4 Tbsp dijon mustard
4 Tbsp maple syrup

Whisk together.

For the muscatel relish:

100g dried muscatel grapes
50ml white wine
50ml water
1 Tbsp white wine vinegar

Remove and discard all stems and seeds from the dried muscatels. This is quite possibly the most tedious job you will perform all week. Roughly hop the seeded muscatels. Combine all the ingredients in a small pot, bring to a boil, and simmer until all the liquid has evaporated. Cool.

(Merry Christmas)