My Thanksgiving tradition: this post repeated. The new Komodo knock-off worked well last year, but i still miss the little Weber smoker they no longer make for larger more expensive versions. It not only was the best, but it reminded me of Blythe’s grandfather, Col. Jimmie “Alligator” Lynch. That little weber disintegrated about 15 or more years ago after being used since 1972. This Thanksgiving post has been running since 1990 in one fashion or another. It is a salute to JB Leftwich.

SAN DIEGO, Original published in 1990 —Holidays, except for the weather, are pretty much the same for me out here in the southwest corner or back in Tennessee. To start, no one will let me smoke the turkey.

When I was growing up in Lebanon, and every time I return there for a holiday, my mother cooks the turkey. When there are only a few of us there, she makes a chicken taste like a turkey. She roasts the turkey, or the chicken, in the oven, and it comes complete with dressing and gravy. When we have a holiday out here, my wife cooks the turkey the same way my mother cooks the turkey. Every Thanksgiving and Christmas, I volunteer to cook the turkey. Every year, whether in Tennessee or out here in the Southwest corner, whoever is in charge of turkeys says no. They profess to love the turkey the way I fix it, but they say another time would be better. They say they want a traditional turkey.

I picked up turkey cooking while I was spending some considerable time about two-thirds of the way between here in the southwest corner and Tennessee. The Colonel, father of my oldest daughter, lived up in Paris, Texas, and he fed me my first smoked turkey. I loved it. Since then, I have modified his recipe somewhat and cook one fine smoked turkey. Since I can’t have it out here or in Tennessee, I thought someone with fewer traditionalists in their immediate family might like to have the recipe to try for the holidays.

Smoking a Turkey

INGREDIENTS:

1. This is fairly important to the success of the whole affair. Pick a good one. The critical part is to make sure it will fit in the smoker
2. 1 container large enough to hold the turkey and cover it with the magic elixir. I’ve been known to use a plastic bucket, but sometimes the dog gets upset as we normally use it for his water dish. This is okay as long as we stay out of biting reach of the dog for two or three days.
3. 1 smoker, probably any kind that claims to be a smoker and any number of possible jury rigs would work; however, if I were using a “Weber” or like vessel, I would make sure that there was extra water in the smoker).
4. 1 bottle of beer. Beer in longnecks is preferable but one should not become too concerned about the type of beer as “Lone Star” is a bit too elegant for this type of cooking. Besides, we wouldn’t want to waste a beer worth drinking on some dumb turkey. If one is desperate and doesn’t mind subjecting oneself to abject humiliation, it is permissible to stoop to using a can of beer.
5. 1\2 cup of Madeira. Again, I wouldn’t be overly concerned about the quality of the wine, and in truth, any red wine is probably okay. However, I would stay away from “Night Train” wine as it has been known to eat through barbecue grills, smokers, and anything made of material weaker than that used in hulls of nuclear submarines.
6. Angostura bitters
7. Worcestershire sauce
8. Chili powder
9. Oregano
10. Sage
11. Honey
12. Molasses
13. Undoubtedly, there are numerous items that I have forgotten to list here, but that’s okay as it really depends on what your individual taste is — I don’t suggest substituting low fat milk for the beer, but most everything else is probably okay — and if it’s really important, I’ll realize I left it out when I get to the narrative of how to use all this stuff and include the forgotten ingredient there.

PREPARATION:

Thaw the turkey. Take all those weird things that they put in those plastic packages inside the turkey and cook them in a skillet without the plastic packages, turning them frequently. Then feed what you just cooked to the dog. It might placate him enough to keep him from biting you for taking away his water bucket. If there are traditionalists in the bunch, give the stuff to them rather than the dog and let them make gravy.

Put the turkey in large container. Pour beer and Madeira over turkey. If you have not allowed about 24 hours for the turkey to thaw or about 8-12 hours for marinating the turkey, call your invited guests and advise them that the celebration will be about two days later than indicated on the original invitation.

Sprinkle other ingredients over the turkey. Be plentiful. It’s almost impossible to get too much.

Crunch the garlic cloves I didn’t mention in the ingredients and add to the container. I normally use about four normal sized cloves for a normal sized turkey. Also add the previously omitted bay leaves, about 6-8 for that same normal sized bird.

Add enough water to cover the turkey although it probably wouldn’t be a disaster if a leg partially stuck out. Then put the container in a safe place, unless of course, you want the dog to be rapturously happy and not bite you until long after his teeth have fallen out.

Allow to sit undisturbed for 6-10 hours (longer is better and ten hours is not necessarily the upper limit but exceeding ten hours may have some impact on when you either eat or get tired of the turkey taking up all that safe space).

Put the turkey on smoker grill above water pan after lighting the charcoal (one or two coals burning well is the best condition for the charcoal) and placing soaked hickory chips, which I also forgot to mention, earlier on the charcoal — again, be plentiful — after soaking the chips for at least 30 minutes. Pour remaining magic elixir over the turkey into the water pan. Add as much water to the water pan as possible without overflowing and putting out the fire below. Cover. Do not touch. Do not look. Do not peek…unless it doesn’t start to smoke in about thirty minutes. Then peek. If it’s smoking, leave alone for at least six hours for a large normal sized turkey. It is almost impossible to overcook if you have added enough water at the outset. You should check and add water or charcoal throughout the process. I have found that mesquite charcoal is the best, as it burns hotter. Regular charcoal will do fine but will require more checking.

The secret to the whole process is to cook extremely slow, as slow as possible and still start the fire.

Serve turkey, preferably without the garlic cloves or bay leaves. Now is the time for “Night Train” wine or the good beer. Serve “Night Train” very cold as indicated on the label.

The turkey’s also good cold.

Shoot the dog.

Happy Thanksgiving.

ruminating while rustling through
old things in a drawer,
i came across an old pocket watch
it’s in the clock shop now;
the bespectacled balding man
said
he might put it in working order
in short order:
the watch holds memories.

i went to an old haunt tonight
after finding the watch;
people sitting around the piano bar:
no bellowing laughs,
all demure titters
appropriate for a piano bar,
titters for titillation:
sad, lonely.

walking home, taking a detour
along the beach;
deserted at night, the breakers
froth and roar;
removing my shoes, 
tossing them over my shoulder,
i walk through the shallows;
the briny sea seems warm
on my bare feet in the swirling sand.
my thoughts boil down to happiness;

you are the breakers on the sand
the watch ticking quietly,
no titters for titillation:
pure unleashed laughter.

with sand on my feet
walking away from the froth, the roar,
respecting the immensity of the sea;
walking home, i glanced at my wrist
to check the time
only to find the old watch is ticking
in the old man’s shop.

perhaps next week,
i will be able to tell the time.

i went to the park today;
the carousel was shuttered up;
it was midday;
the children were in school;
the sidewalk sellers were sparse;
one old man in a cowboy hat
with his guitar was warming up,
his cup for tips sat at his folded knee;
the folks in the park were old
or
homeless ones who had wandered in,
repacking their plastic bags
by the fountains.

i wish i could ride the carousel today
all by myself
with the organ music playing loudly;
i would pick the largest horse to ride,
the palomino with the white mane;
i would hold on to the pole
as my steed would rise up and down;
i would sway side to side in time with the
organ music.

i would like to ride my steed on the carousel today…
but
the carousel is shuttered.

At noon today, i walked up my slope and sat underneath our flag. i looked out on the Pacific. i raised the bottle of beer i had brought with me specifically to salute a legend.

JD Waits and i shared an untold number of beers together. We will not share any more beers, or martinis. Today, JD went into hospice, suffering from pulmonary fibrosis. He will not be coming back to his home in Bastrop, Texas.

i met JD soon after our ship, the USS Okinawa (LPH 10) departed Perth headed around the south of Australia en route to Sydney. It was September 1981. We, along with Major Lou Rehberger, USMC, and Marine Air Ops, Commander King Deutsch, the aviation maintenance officer, and his assistant, CWO 3 JD were in the office of our executive officer, CDR Vern Von Sydow. We all had different reasons to see the XO.

The stories of the legend and me began.

JD’s beginnings were as the son of John David and Wanda Pearl Waits in Houston, Texas. They ran a no-kidding diner that was known for wonderful fare, especially their barbeque.

i shall not expand on JD’s history now except to note he was brilliant in anything he undertook. And his story telling eclipsed the story telling of anyone i have known.

As i am doing with another of my close friends, Marty Linville, i plan to post JD’s exploits and stories, as well as the many adventures, mostly off the grid, we shared.

For now, as i deal with his situation, i will include one of my favorites of all of his stories. i must let you know no story of JD’s could be better than when he told it.

♦︎♦︎♦︎

Back a number of years ago in rural Texas, the most valuable man in the county was the one who owns a backhoe. For some reason, Texans love to dig holes. Ernest, was proud of being the owner of the only backhoe in Henderson County, about fifty miles southeast of Dallas. The back hoe made him a busy and well-respected man.

Down the road from Ernest lived a television commercial producer who specialized in animal commercials. His property was full of lions, tigers, giraffes, monkeys of all types, and one elephant. Ernest liked going over to see the owner of the east Texas menagerie and offer unsolicited advice. On one visit, Ernest, a master of the obvious, noticed the elephant had been lying still for quite a while.

“What’s wrong with that elephant?” he asked. “It ain’t moved since I got here.”

“Ernest,” the producer said with great sadness, “it up and died last night.”

“Damn, that’s too bad,” replied Ernest offering his sincere condolences, “What are you going to do with it?”

“Ain’t quite rightly figured that out,” the producer puzzled, “Call someone to get shed of it, I guess.”

Uncle Ernest, never being one to miss a chance to use his backhoe and make a little money, quickly offered his services. A price was agreed upon, and Ernest set to his task. He sized the elephant up, down, and crosswise and went back home, returning with his backhoe.

After a short discussion, a burial site was determined. Ernest went to work digging the elephant’s grave.

As soon as the digging was completed, the problem then became getting the elephant from its place of demise to the place of burial, a distance of about half a mile. The producer and Ernest agreed the solution was to attach logging chains to the elephant and drag it to the spot with Ernest’s big pickup.

By the time the dragging began, quite a crowd had gathered. The elephant was dragged up next to the hole. All of the observers became participants. With long poles, pulleys, ropes, and the aforementioned logging chains, the elephant was pushed, pulled, pried, and drug into the hole.

Unfortunately for Uncle Ernest and the elephant, the hole was not deep enough. The only thing to do was to dig another, but deeper hole. Avoiding  the gory details of how they got that dead elephant out of the hole, it is enough to know the operation involved overalls, swim masks, and chain saws.

One of the greatest sins one can commit in the great state of Texas is to dig a hole that can’t be used. Poor Ernest was now the object of dead elephant, a useless hole, and elephant jokes.

But not for long.

Ernest’s wife, Billie Fern, was a Henderson County Sheriff’s dispatcher, a position with inside and most often, useless information. Ernest called Billie Fern to relate his sad state of being a joke in the county, the details of elephant interment, and the associated problems.

But before he could get to his story, Billie Fern informed him she had just received a dispatching call from a convenience store manager whose store was close to their house. The owner had called the dispatcher to report finding 11 dead ostriches in a dumpster behind his store (This area of Texas is an ideal place for raising large flightless birds, and unfortunately, ostrich rustling has become a major crime problem).

Forgetting his sad plight, Ernest was elated.

“Billie Fern, call the owner back and tell him, I’ll haul off those ostriches and bury them for him,” he shouted joyfully into the phone.

“Are you crazy,” Billie Fern replied.

“No, I’m not crazy,” Ernest responded, “I’ve already got the hole dug.

“This will be pure profit!”

♦︎♦︎♦︎

God bless you, JD, for giving me your stories.

i probably use the word “magic” too often.

As Don Williams once intoned, “I Believe in Magic.” i experienced magic Saturday. i worked on outdoor projects most of the day. It was typical Southwest corner weather magic: high 72, a few clouds, enough to give the sky its own signature against the azure backdrop, pure, clean. It was cool enough to put on a sweater in the first blush of morning, but i was back to short sleeves for the bulk of the day.

Then, the magic really got serious.

A year or so ago, Maureen and i went to see and hear the San Diego Symphony perform Anton Dvořák’s Ninth Symphony, the New World. It was special. A narrative accompanied by dollops of the symphony itself explained how Dvořák came to America and composed this wonderful piece. i was enthralled, moved.

You see, i became a lover of “The New World” in 1963. Billy Parsons and i were looking for Cy Fraser. Someone told us he was in the Vanderbilt library. Knowing Cy, we decided to check out the music area. Sure enough, we came upon Cy sitting in one of the carrels. He had earphones on and was swaying back and forth, his arms waving along with the music. He was listening to the New World Symphony. Of course, i had to listen. i have been devoted, and i mean devoted to this music ever since. Except for when i was at sea (it was pretty tough to listen to music on Navy ships back then), i have listened to the entire work at least once a month, actually more frequently. Still do.

So when the Symphony announced that would be the featured music again in their renovated Jacob’s Music Center, we headed that way Saturday evening.

The symphony’s new digs are beyond impressive, not to mention the sound is perfect. Elena Swarz was the guest conductor who has conducted the Vienna and Barcelona symphony orchestras among others this year.

The two initial pieces were interesting. New stuff. i gained an appreciation for a different kind of classical music.

Then, they played my symphony.

It was a moving forty minutes. As we walked back to our car, i told Maureen that listening to Dvořák performed in a symphony hall was a religious experience for me.

It was magic.