Slow-Cooked Turkey with Berry Compote

The snow accumulated past the railings this week — a thirteen-inch storm Tuesday into Wednesday, the heavy wet snow that breaks branches and overloads roofs and forces the kind of attention to the property that I do not always give it in the easier months. I was up on the back roof for an hour Wednesday afternoon with the long-handled rake, pulling the snow off in long satisfying slabs, the kind of work that I should arguably not be doing at seventy-two but that I have been doing my whole life and that I am not yet ready to delegate. David, who keeps an eye on me without seeming to, called Wednesday evening and asked, oh-so-casually, whether the snow load on the roof was holding. I said: the roof is fine. He said: did you rake it. I said: I raked it. He was quiet for two seconds. He said: be careful up there, dad. I said: I always am. We left it there. He knows. I know he knows. He knows I know he knows. The whole thing is communicated in two beats of silence on a phone call, which is the Bergstrom way and which is, in its particular Vermont efficiency, a complete conversation.

Made a chicken and dumplings Saturday for the kind of supper that is the answer to a long week of shoveling. The chicken poached in broth with onion and carrot and celery and bay, then pulled off the bone and returned to the pot, then the dumplings dropped in by the spoonful and the lid on for fifteen minutes while they steamed up into pillows on top of the stew. The dish is forgiving and warming and was Helen's favorite of all the things I cook, and I have not stopped making it on at least four winter Saturdays a year since she died. The first time I made it after October 2021, I cried at the stove. The second time, less. The third time, not at all. By the tenth time it was simply chicken and dumplings, the way it had been for forty years before, and I was glad to have it back as just chicken and dumplings, because grief that lasts forever in the cooking is grief that has trapped the cook, and Helen would not have wanted me trapped.

Owen came over Saturday afternoon. Ted Marchand sent him with a basket of biscuits Patricia had made, the late-afternoon delivery being the kind of small neighborly thing that has become part of our weekly rhythm in the last few years. Owen is twelve now, growing in the long ungainly way twelve-year-old boys grow, and he stayed for cocoa and talked to me for twenty minutes about a science project he was working on, something to do with the movement of glaciers, which he explained with more enthusiasm and more accuracy than I would have predicted. I listened. I asked the right questions. He left feeling listened to, which is the only thing a twelve-year-old boy needs from a seventy-two-year-old man, and I sat afterward by the woodstove and thought that Ted is doing a good job with that grandson, the way Patricia did a good job with Ted's daughters, and the way these jobs cascade through generations if the people doing them are paying attention.

Sarah called at 8 PM. Lucy is leaving for Costa Rica in three weeks. The clinic has confirmed the placement, the visa is approved, the airline ticket bought. Sarah is anxious in a quiet way that I can hear under the operational details. I said: she'll text you. She said: I know. I said: she'll come back. She said: I know. I said: this is what we raise them to do. She said: I know. We left it there. The knowing is enough. The knowing is what mothers and fathers and grandfathers have to do when adventurous children go places, and we have all done it before and we will all do it again, and the doing of it does not get easier but it gets more familiar, which is not the same thing but is closer to it than I would have once believed.

The chicken and dumplings was Helen’s, and I will keep making it as long as my legs hold. But when a week has had snow on the roof and a grandson explaining glaciers and a granddaughter booking flights to Central America, sometimes the stove calls for something that cooks slowly and asks almost nothing of you while it works — and this slow-cooked turkey with berry compote is exactly that: a dish that rewards patience and fills the kitchen with the kind of warmth that makes the woodstove feel less necessary.

Prep Time: 20 min | Cook Time: 6–8 hours | Total Time: 6 hours 20 min | Servings: 6

Ingredients

3 lbs bone-in turkey thighs or drumsticks, skin on
1 tsp kosher salt
1/2 tsp black pepper
1/2 tsp smoked paprika
1/2 tsp dried thyme
1 tbsp olive oil
1 medium yellow onion, sliced
3 cloves garlic, minced
1/2 cup low-sodium chicken broth
Berry Compote:
1 1/2 cups mixed berries (fresh or frozen — blueberries, cranberries, raspberries)
2 tbsp maple syrup or honey
1 tbsp apple cider vinegar
1/4 tsp ground cinnamon
Pinch of salt

Instructions

Season the turkey. Pat turkey pieces dry with paper towels. Combine salt, pepper, paprika, and thyme, then rub evenly over all surfaces of the turkey.
Sear for color (optional but recommended). Heat olive oil in a skillet over medium-high heat. Sear turkey pieces skin-side down for 3–4 minutes until golden. Flip and sear another 2 minutes. Transfer to slow cooker.
Build the base. Scatter sliced onion and garlic over and around the turkey in the slow cooker. Pour chicken broth into the bottom of the pot.
Cook low and slow. Cover and cook on LOW for 6–8 hours, or on HIGH for 3–4 hours, until the turkey is fall-tender and pulls easily from the bone.
Make the berry compote. About 20 minutes before serving, combine berries, maple syrup, apple cider vinegar, cinnamon, and a pinch of salt in a small saucepan over medium heat. Stir occasionally and cook 12–15 minutes until berries break down and the mixture thickens slightly. Adjust sweetness to taste.
Rest and serve. Remove turkey from slow cooker and let rest 5 minutes. Spoon pan juices over the turkey and serve with the warm berry compote alongside. Good over mashed potatoes, egg noodles, or with a thick slice of bread.

Nutrition (per serving)

Slow-Cooked Turkey with Berry Compote — The Supper That Brings You Back