A new Thanksgiving tradition
Ben, after reading Gary Nabhan’s book Coming Home to Eat: The Politics and Pleasures of Local Foods in which Gary describes a year eating only foods produced within a 200 mile radius of his Tucson home, decided we needed a change in our Thanksgiving tradition. “This year, let’s do something different, something revolutionary.” Ben popped the idea to Rebecca and me. “Forget the normal family Thanksgiving with all the same stuff and wasting the beautiful day watching a stupid football game. Let’s get a local turkey, we’ll dig a pit, have a bunch of friends over, and use the foods from around here.”
Sounded pretty reasonable to us (all but the football part anyway). We figured the hardest part would be breaking the news to Rebecca’s sister who loves holding the traditional celebration at her home here in Tucson. Barbie took the news well, probably figuring “What a bunch of nuts. They’ll get it out of their system.” and decided that just because the Wilder’s wanted to become one with the land was no reason to disrupt the rest of the family.
That being settled, it was time to start planning. Figuring that there’s no success like excess we decided to do both turkey and pork. We’ll prepare the turkey Oaxacan style and make Cochinita Pibil with the pig. I’ve researched both of these dishes and developed the recipes for them we use at the restaurant. I’ve participated in making (my job was eating) lamb barbacoa in Oaxaca but have never pit roasted myself. In preparation, Ben put on Rick Bayless’ DVD from his TV show, Mexico, One Plate at Time and we watched as Rick and his daughter, Lanie, dug a pit, lined it with bricks, built a fire, which reduced to coals, marinated and roasted a pig, and held a party for about 20 of their friends in half an hour. How hard could it be?
First thing you have to understand is, I’m not a project guy. No one has ever called me “handy”. If something needs work around the house either Rebecca does it, we hire someone, or more likely, it doesn’t get done.
So let’s start with the pit. It’s got to be 46 inches long, 36” wide and about 12” deep to hold the brick lining, the coals and the two large roasters we’d need. “I really want to be part of this.” Ben insisted. Then came the GRE test, then the trip to the Pinacates with one of his professors, then complications with my schedule, and there I was in the yard with a pick and shovel expanding our very small fire pit to the required dimensions. I’m not whining, but our soil is nothing like the rich, well-worked soil that yielded so easily to Rick’s shovel in his Chicago backyard. Ours is full of rocks and caliche. When I put my shovel to the earth sparks fly.
Let’s talk about bricks. You can’t use regular bricks and adobe won’t work, so soon I was off to the brickyard and, with the shocks and springs sagging in my station wagon, brought home a load of fire bricks. I figured about 10 trips in Ben’s old wagon and I’d have the bricks transferred to the fire pit. That worked for one load until Rebecca let me know “You can’t pull the wagon over the winter lawn we just planted.” OK, what’s wrong with this picture? Here we are in the desert, trying to cook locally and we have a lawn? Not only that, but I got caught in the sprinklers.
Plan B: portage around the lawn and up the steps to pit. Ten trips became 60. More good exercise.
Let’s talk about turkeys. We all know that turkeys are now a mass-produced commodity from a single gene pool raised to grow quickly with huge breasts. They can barely move around, cannot procreate and are generally pumped full of hormones and antibiotics. They also cost about .69 a pound at the local supermarket. My baby’s an organically raised Double Breasted (can you get a single breasted?) Bronze. A 23.6 pounder at four bucks a pound. George Wykoff raised it in Willcox, about 60 miles south of us. My first call to George: “Can’t hear you, I’m in the car and can’t write anything down. You know I’m sixty. Call my mother- in- law she’ll take down your name.” He gave me the number. I called his mother in law who took down my name and number. The next day I called George back: “I can’t hear you, I’m on the tractor in the garlic field. My wife we’ll bring you the turkey. I’ll get you my neighbors number, he just butchered some pigs.” I was on the right track. Local turkey, local pigs. This is going to be out of control!
Back to the pit. “Ben, you know we’ll need a lot of dirt to seal the pit airtight once we put the pans in. I think I’ll go buy some dirt.” Sounded reasonable to me, particularly since I was the guy doing the digging. “You gotta be kidding dad. We’re digging a pit, getting local turkey and pig and you’re going to buy the dirt? That’s not happening.” I put Ben in charge of the dirt.
Now there’s the piece about the lid for the roasters, which of course do not come with their own. Rick and Lanie had a gorgeous steel plate with handles on it. In Oaxaca they’d used corrugated tin. I went to my buddy Jose, a blacksmith and welder who’s been fixing and making me things for the last 25 years and asked his advice. “Don’t start drinking too early,” he said “we pit roasted for my wedding and were drunk by the time the meat was done” he now has 5 kids, 2 out on their own. Are you going to wrap it in banana leaves?” He’s making us a lid out of 3/8” reclaimed metal. It’ll weigh about 60 pounds. I think I see more good exercise coming.