The year was 2002, a year that lives in infamy, or at least extreme annoyance, in my daughter, Alison’s, life.
That was the year of the cursed perfect turkey.
Prior to that, Alison’s Thanksgiving turkeys ranged from dry to just OK. But in 2002 she took a madcap leap of faith, risked everything and brined the bird — and it came out brown and crisp on the outside, moist and succulent on the inside. Perfection with drumsticks and wings.
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