This Thanksgiving, I had turkey for dinner. But it wasn't just any turkey. This turkey came from a farm nearby, where the birds were truly free-range, ate grain by the handful and all the bugs they could snatch up, and met their fate in a humane way. I bought this turkey from a farmer I know, whose farmer friend actually raised the turkeys. They were dispatched last Sunday, picked up on Tuesday, and brought to the table on Thursday. The farmer I know sends her children to a local school, which she must pay for, and she raises and sells her own chickens, ducks, and eggs. She and the turkey farmer buy their feed and other supplies from local stores, so my money is supporting local businesses instead of some big conglomerate hundreds of miles away.
Ours was a 10-pounder, lean, and more than enough for three people. We spread olive oil and herbs under the skin and all over the top, and stuffed onions and carrots in the cavity. Although not as tender as a factory-raised bird, the meat was so flavorful and went down well with a dab of cranberry sauce. We even cooked and pureed the giblets, a fine feast for my kitty. Picking the rest of the meat from the bone after dinner was strangely satisfying in a primitive way. It was good to know where my meat came from, even if nothing else on the table was organic or sustainable. I can preach to my family all I want, but only they can can take the step to commit to sustainability. My dad now recycles, and I consider that a big step.
