The Eternal Question This Thanksgiving:
There comes a time where every man must ask:“To brine, or not to brine, that is the question. Whether ‘tis nobler for the bird to get dunked in a liquid of immense salinity, or to take it into my arms and with a sea of butter, lovingly baste it. To brine, to dry out no more; and by brine we end the long history of moisture-sucking breast meat, the heartache of a bird sacrificed only to go uneaten. The flesh so moist: ‘tis a consumption devoutly to be devoured. To baste, to butter—to crisp and brown the skin—aye, with a spice rub. For in the basting, what flavor may come when I turn on the electric coil of my oven must give us pause—the respect of the in-laws to be earned. For we cannot bear the whips and scorn of the dinner guests for a bird cooked wrong, the poor cook’s pangs of dispriz’d dinner….”
Alas, poor Butterball, I’ll cook you well.
