BLOGS

Perhaps the best part of Thanksgiving is the turkey carcass left after the feasting.

That sounds gruesome, I know, but I was so eager to get to those bones that I pulled out the large soup pot and filled it up right as I carved the meat from the Thanksgiving bird. My guests were somewhat appalled as I viciously tore off wings and drumsticks, then broke the meat-stripped carcass in half to fit in the pot.

The Thanksgiving dinner was delicious. The conversation lively. The wine — a pinot noir and a syrah — grand. But I had the soup pot on the stove — bones covered with water and surrounded with big, crude-cut chunks of celery, onion and carrots — and boiling away that evening before the dishwasher had finished its cycle of dinner cleanup.

I cooked the bones down a couple hours before putting the pot on the back porch — my walk-in refrigerator at this time of year — and heading to bed. I put it back on the stove the next evening and simmered the stock for another couple hours, filling the house with sweet ambrosia aromas that matched that of the turkey roasting the day before.

I put the pot out on the porch again that night. The next day I put the pot on the stove and warmed it just slightly, to liquify the jellied soup. The nastiest part of the job is digging your hands in the stock and segregating the bones, gristle and spent vegetables from from the meat and broth. My dog Shakti — now deceased, bless her soul — would love this part of the process. There was always a mound of skin, gristle and unidentifiable turkey parts that made wonderful additions to her dinners.

The results were five quarts of broth and a quart of shredded meat for future soups and recipes calling for a rich stock. I froze the meat and four quarts.

Another quart became the base for a delicious turkey vegetable soup. I chopped one chopped carrot, half an onion, a small Roma tomato, a stalk of celery and a couple leaves of chard and sauteed them a few minutes in a little olive oil before pouring them into the broth, which I then simmered another half hour.

Topped with a little grated Parmesan or Romano cheese and served with crusty bread and a light red table wine, this is peasant Heaven. Soup with taste I guarantee you'll never find out of a can.

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