Barbecued Turkey Sandwiches

Memorial Day. The cemetery, the flowers from the garden, the uncle in Korea and Patrick's parents and the other names on the stones that belong to families I know. The same ritual, the same May morning, the same short walk through the gate and back.

I've been thinking about Derek differently since the therapy work. Not more or less — differently. The event of his death has always been in one category in my understanding of it: the thing I carry. The therapy has been doing something to that category, not removing the weight but redistributing it. The understanding that carrying weight and being defined by it are different things. That I am Ryan Gallagher who was present at the death of his best friend, not Ryan Gallagher who is the death of his best friend. The distinction sounds small. It isn't.

Wrote a piece this week about Memorial Day and what it means to carry an absence through a long life. Not about Derek specifically — I haven't written about Derek directly, not publicly — but about the general territory of living on after someone who didn't. The piece was quiet and careful and I wasn't sure about posting it. I posted it anyway. Linda called Saturday and said she'd read it three times. She said: You're writing your way through it. I said that was what it felt like. She said: Keep going.

Made baked beans from scratch for Memorial Day weekend — navy beans soaked overnight, molasses and brown sugar and mustard and a thick layer of salt pork on top, baked in the Dutch oven for six hours with the lid on and then another hour without. A recipe older than any I regularly make, the kind of food that predates most American kitchens and will outlast the current ones.

The baked beans were in the Dutch oven for most of the day, and that kind of cooking — the kind that just asks you to wait — felt right for where I was. When I make food for the long weekend now, I want something that works the same way the grief work does: slow, low heat, time doing most of the labor. These barbecued turkey sandwiches are built the same way — nothing rushed, nothing complicated, the kind of thing you put together before the morning visit to the cemetery and come home to at the end of it. That felt like enough of a reason.

Prep Time: 15 min | Cook Time: 2 hrs 30 min | Total Time: 2 hrs 45 min | Servings: 8

Ingredients

3 lbs bone-in turkey breast
1 cup barbecue sauce (your preferred brand or homemade)
1/2 cup chicken broth
1/4 cup apple cider vinegar
2 tablespoons brown sugar
1 tablespoon Worcestershire sauce
1 teaspoon smoked paprika
1/2 teaspoon garlic powder
1/2 teaspoon onion powder
1/2 teaspoon ground black pepper
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
8 sandwich buns, split and lightly toasted
Coleslaw or sliced pickles, for serving (optional)

Instructions

Prep the turkey. Pat the turkey breast dry with paper towels. Season all sides with salt, pepper, smoked paprika, garlic powder, and onion powder.
Make the sauce. In a medium bowl, whisk together the barbecue sauce, chicken broth, apple cider vinegar, brown sugar, and Worcestershire sauce until combined.
Braise low and slow. Place the turkey breast in a Dutch oven or heavy oven-safe pot. Pour the sauce over the top. Cover and cook at 325°F for 2 hours, basting once halfway through, until the turkey is tender and registers at least 165°F internally.
Rest and shred. Remove the turkey from the pot and let it rest on a cutting board for 10 minutes. Pull the meat from the bone and shred it with two forks into bite-sized pieces.
Reduce the sauce. While the turkey rests, place the Dutch oven on the stovetop over medium heat and simmer the remaining braising liquid for 8–10 minutes until slightly thickened.
Combine and serve. Return the shredded turkey to the pot and toss to coat with the reduced sauce. Pile onto toasted buns and top with coleslaw or pickles if desired.

Nutrition (per serving)

Barbecued Turkey Sandwiches — The Slow Kind of Cooking That Matches a Long Kind of Grief