Turducken

Unlike most practicing Jews, I don't spend Christmas Eve holed up in a Chinese restaurant. Usually, my plans involve peppermint schnapps and Bud Light with my old clique.

Change of plans.

I ended up at the house of a family friend last night for their annual turducken. For those unaware, turducken is a chicken stuffed inside a duck stuffed inside a turkey. Layers are separated by cornbread stuffing and the Frankenbird commands a hefty fee of over $100.

Was it worth it? The turkey part was good, kept moist by the fat from the duck. Fine. The only thing that distinguished this bird, however, from its brethren, was the color of the meat: three varying shades of beige.
The final result of turducken, I think, is a product that tastes nothing like the sum of its parts. Why eat a duck stuffed inside a turkey? The best parts of the duck--crispy skin, tender breast--are masked by the pedestrian stuffing and the ordinary tastes of the other meats.

Why eat a chicken that doesn't taste like chicken, or a turkey that doesn't taste like a turkey? Turducken is the antithesis to my feelings about land and agriculture and the importance of knowing the genesis of food. Simple, quality food prepared simply turducken simply is not.

Next year, perhaps I'll try my hand at Christmas goose.