Thanksgiving in Savannah was lovely. I splurged on a heritage turkey from Heritage Foods, even though I didn’t have a chance to spy on the bird via webcam in the days leading up to his demise, which is one of the brilliant selling points of these birds. We at least savored the heartwarming stories of all the various farms–the assembled at Casa Bonaventura decided our turkey must’ve come from the gay one.

With the bird came a little information sheet listing the various heritage breeds and the characteristics of each. Figuring out which one ours might be would’ve required an LSAT-level logic grid, so I just turned the project over to Bob, who stuffed the 15-pound baby and popped him in the oven.

A few hours later, I came in and finished him up. After a lot of nervous poking, I decided this called for slicing off the legs, which were still oozing red, and leaving them in the oven while we put the rest of the completely done bird on the counter to wait. The result was perfectly done breast and leg. Duh. I don’t know why I haven’t done this before–maybe because the gap between done and not-done hasn’t ever been quite this drastic, and maybe because it seems like admitting failure. (Last night Peter and I were imagining a situation in which we would super-chill the breast meat with little ice packs, as a sort of handicap, before popping the bird in the oven. Less practical, but maybe more fun than the leg-severing strategy. And it would only work if you didn’t drink too many whiskey sours and forget to take the ice packs off.)

Anyway, the turkey was delicious. Although still not quite as delicious as turkey I’ve eaten in the Yucatan…but then everything tastes better when eaten in another country.

I also made some pies. Note to self: Make pie dough more than once a year, so I remember how to do it. Back in New Mexico, I was the Pie Queen. Seventeen years later, I still haven’t adapted to sea-level baking, and my crusts are hit or miss. I tried a new pie recipe, from the November issue of Saveur: buttermilk pie with cardamom. It was not like the delectable “Buttermilk Sky Pie” of Barton’s from Terrace Club, but more like a very light cheesecake. The cardamom made me think I should’ve waited till Christmas to make it (cardamom is linked to stollen in my mind), and the texture made me think I should’ve made a crumb crust. Actually, maybe next time I’ll just follow the recipe for the standard pie crust–that would be a wise move. Still, good to try something new.

My pie gut, I mean glut (oh, I didn’t mention–I made three: apple and mince also), plus the existing three pies (pumpkin, sweet potato, pecan), meant I spent all weekend eating not leftover turkey but extra pie: big slabs of mincemeat with whipped cream for breakfast, apple for lunch-dessert, buttermilk as an afternoon snack. As Peter and I were packing our snacks for the train, I was looking sadly at the remaining pies, which almost certainly would get tossed after we left. Bloated and sugar-saturated, I was still thinking, I could’ve saved one more slice…

Thanks to all who helped the noble cause!