During my first year at Bugtussle, we raised turkeys.In lieu of the heritage breed turkeys like your Bourbon Red's or Narragansett's, we opted to raise the conventional, broad-breasted turkeys...but to raise them unconventionally. They lived their entire lives outside, protected from predation by solar-electrified fencing, with constant visits from your's truly. I loved those turkeys. I loved Tomahawk, and I loved Iceberg. I loved Galliopo, Bunker Bill, Chaos, Gunnison, Gravner, and Beardo. I named them, too, because I was a fool in love. Then November came, and we had to process them. Here's an excerpt from my original blog on the subject:"As Michael Pollan has pointed out, "process" is a kind term for killing, cleaning and packaging, but that's what it is: killing. The night before, we loaded them all in the truck, and as the truck pulled away with all of my buddies staring at me, my heart sank, and the next day we killed them. I helped. I can't be more honest when I say it was the hardest day of my life, and I still haven't reconciled it completely. Killing is not easy, and truthfully, I'm glad it's not easy. I'm glad it was hard on me. It shouldn't be easy." I went to New York for Thanksgiving and took Tomahawk with me for the meal. I brined him for two days, then smoked him for 13 hours, and nothing that's ever been killed has ever been done quite as much justice. The fact remains, though: killing these birds was the hardest thing I ever had to do and I was not looking forward to doing it again this year. Luckily, as fate would have it, I received a phone call in June from the farm while I was on delivery in Gallatin. The hatchery had called to say our turkeys didn't hatch––a somewhat common occurrence in the farming world––and we would not be raising turkeys this year. With a dauntingly busy season ahead of us, I think we were all a bit relieved. No one more than myself. That did leave the dilemma as to what we were going to eat this year, which leads us to The Legend of Bunker Bill.Bill got his name late in the season when he mysteriously broke his leg and spent the rest of his life limping around after me like a determined little soldier. It sounds sad, but he always seemed to be in good, curious spirits regardless of his disability. However, when we processed him, his body was a little beat up from his flailing nature so I opted to take him because no one was going to have a chance to use him. I had planned on cooking him over the winter then just never had a chance. The next thing I knew, I was back on the farm and he remained in the freezer until the season ended a few weeks ago. When you take a life, you begin to see the life that once inhabited your food. It would take a seriously convincing argument to ever get me to want to raise turkeys again, but I couldn't let Bill's life go to waste. Now, having inspected him and apologized, Bunker Bill is sitting in brine in the kitchen, waiting for tomorrow's feast. I'm thankful for his patience. I'm thankful for the opportunity to cook for my family––both old and new. And I'm thankful for the experience of raising turkeys, as they connected me to being thankful.- Jesse.
