I read Paul's books in the evening. The shipwreck books, of course. The same chapters I have read forty times now. The repetition is the comfort. I am not reading for new information. I am reading because the act of opening Paul's books and turning Paul's pages is a form of sitting in the room with him. He is not in the room. The book was in his hand. The book is in my hand. The hands are connected through the book.
Peter called from Chicago. He sounded thinner than last week. He said work was fine. I do not believe him. He said his apartment was fine. I do not believe him either. He asked about the dog. He asked about the lake. He told me he loved me. I told him I loved him too. I told him about the bread I was baking. He said he could almost smell it through the phone. We hung up. I stood at the sink for a long minute. I did not know what else to do.
Sophie texted a photo of Mira eating cereal. Mira's face was covered in milk. The photo was lit from the side by morning light and the smile in it was uninhibited and full and I could not stop looking at it. I printed the photo. I taped it to the fridge. I have a system on the fridge now: a column for each grandchild, a column for each great-grandchild, photos rotated weekly. The fridge is the gallery. The gallery is the proof.
I cooked Chicken and dumplings this week. The whole chicken poached with vegetables, the meat shredded back in, the broth thickened with cream. Dumplings dropped on top — flour, baking powder, butter, milk — covered, ten minutes of steam. The dumplings come out cloud-soft. The bowl warms two hands.
The Damiano Center: a regular named Marlene, who has been coming for twelve years, told me her granddaughter just had a baby. She was glowing. She had a photo on her phone. The phone was old and cracked but the photo was clear: a small pink baby in a hospital blanket. Marlene said: "I am a great-grandmother now. The same as you." I said: "Welcome to the club." We hugged. The line continues, even on the hard side of the soup line.
Mamma's bread pans are on the shelf where they have always been. I used the smaller one this week. The metal has worn smooth in the places her hands touched it for sixty years. The pan is, in some real sense, a sculpture of Mamma's hands. I knead the bread in the bowl Mamma used. I shape it on the counter Mamma stood at (well, mine, but identical to hers — same Formica color, same dimensions). I bake it in the pan Mamma baked in. The kitchen is the relay. The relay continues.
It is enough. Paul is not here. Mamma is not here. Pappa is not here. Erik is not here. They are all here in the kitchen, in the smell, in the taste, in the wooden spoon and the bread pans and the marble slab. The dead are not where the body went. The dead are in the kitchen.
I have been blogging for years now. The blog began as something to do at night when sleep would not come. The blog has become — without my fully intending it — a small congregation. The readers come back. They read the recipes. They read the parts that are not recipes. They write to me sometimes. They tell me what they cooked. They tell me about their own kitchens, their own losses, their own continued cooking. The congregation is its own form of company.
It is enough.
The chicken and dumplings were right for a midweek supper — something to hold two hands around a bowl — but when the weekend came and I thought about the table and who was not at it, I wanted something larger, something that asked more of me. A roast turkey is not a fast meal. It is an intention. You have to decide the day before. You have to plan. That planning is its own form of presence, and presence, I have learned, is what we owe to the people still here and to the memory of the ones who are not.
Roast Turkey
Prep Time: 30 min | Cook Time: 3 hr 30 min | Total Time: 4 hr | Servings: 12
Ingredients
- 1 whole turkey (12–14 lbs), thawed if frozen, giblets removed
- 1/2 cup unsalted butter, softened
- 2 tsp kosher salt
- 1 tsp freshly ground black pepper
- 1 tsp garlic powder
- 1 tsp onion powder
- 1 tsp dried thyme
- 1 tsp dried rosemary, crumbled
- 1/2 tsp dried sage
- 1 lemon, halved
- 1 large yellow onion, quartered
- 4 cloves garlic, smashed
- 4 sprigs fresh rosemary
- 4 sprigs fresh thyme
- 2 cups low-sodium chicken broth
Instructions
- Preheat and prepare. Preheat your oven to 325°F. Pat the turkey completely dry inside and out with paper towels. Dry skin is the foundation of a good roast.
- Make the herb butter. In a small bowl, mix the softened butter with salt, pepper, garlic powder, onion powder, dried thyme, rosemary, and sage until fully combined.
- Season the turkey. Gently loosen the skin over the breast and thighs with your fingers. Push half the herb butter directly under the skin and smooth it flat. Rub the remaining butter all over the outside of the bird.
- Fill the cavity. Stuff the cavity loosely with the lemon halves, quartered onion, smashed garlic, and fresh herb sprigs. Do not pack tightly — you want air to circulate.
- Truss and position. Tie the legs together with kitchen twine and tuck the wing tips under the body. Place the turkey breast-side up on a rack set inside a large roasting pan. Pour the chicken broth into the bottom of the pan.
- Roast. Roast uncovered at 325°F, basting with pan drippings every 45 minutes. Plan for approximately 15 minutes per pound. A 13-pound turkey will take about 3 hours to 3 hours 30 minutes.
- Check for doneness. The turkey is done when an instant-read thermometer inserted into the thickest part of the thigh (not touching bone) reads 165°F. The juices should run clear.
- Rest before carving. Transfer the turkey to a cutting board, tent loosely with foil, and let it rest for at least 20 minutes. Resting allows the juices to redistribute. Do not skip this step.
- Carve and serve. Remove the twine and cavity aromatics. Carve the breast meat in smooth downward slices, then remove the thighs and drumsticks. Arrange on a warm platter. Use the pan drippings to make gravy if you like.
Nutrition (per serving)
Calories: 375 | Protein: 48g | Fat: 19g | Carbs: 1g | Fiber: 0g | Sodium: 510mg
About the cook who shared this
Linda Johansson
Week 417 of Linda’s 30-year story
· Duluth, Minnesota
Linda is a sixty-three-year-old retired nurse from Duluth, Minnesota, living alone in the house where she raised her children and said goodbye to her husband. She lost Paul to ALS in 2020 after two years of watching the kindest man she'd ever known lose everything but his dignity. She cooks Scandinavian comfort food and Minnesota hotdish and the pot roast Paul loved, and she sets two places at the table out of habit because it makes her feel less alone. Every recipe she writes is a person she's loved.