Fahrenheit 452

It starts in darkness. Quiet. Some are snoring. Some aren’t. But it’s Christmas morning. I light a candle, flip on all the fairy lights, and make tea. Plenty to do. But back up a few… days, that is. 

Frozen birds won’t do unless preparing to kill your loved ones, in which case they ain’t loved ones. So thaw the bird. Depending on its girth, two to three days in a fridge or cool place. The bigger the bird, the longer it takes. Still, if your bird is fresh and doesn’t have ice in its bones, move on. And make sure no critters get their jaws or paws on it–nothing ruins the day more. 

Assuming your turkey is thawed and raw, looking naked and anaemic–not gobbling–and when you prod it, the flesh is firm and supple, let’s get started. It still ain’t too pretty, but if meat pleases you, it will be. Wash your hands.

But I’m jumping ahead, and if there’s one thing I learnt from Mother and Father, it’s best to be prepared. Did you shop for the ingredients? It ain’t for the faint-hearted or vegetarians among you, but for those, I’d knock up a tasty nut loaf, or stuffed winter vegetables–or both. That said, here’s my take on what Mother and Father made every year. We didn’t do Jamie Oliver.

Don’t skimp on the bacon, sausage meat or minced pork. Dried or fresh sage, pepper and salt; apples, lemons, or a ripe satsuma; the holy trinity of onion, carrot, and celery. 

Trimmings are controversial. Chipolatas, or long, thin sausages cut into thirds. Yes, more bacon. Then the roast potatoes, that goes without saying. Roasted honey glazed carrots and parsnips, too. A selection of greens, broccoli, runner beans, peas, kale, you choose. Gravy–come back to. The most contentious of vegetables–the Brussel sprout. Dividing families since the back end of the eighteenth century. Mother and Father, traditionalists at heart, never did more than cross them and boil. By crossing, I mean carving a cross to cook evenly–not some religious ceremony. More on sprouts later. One of many Christmas Eve chores, along with peeling the spuds, carrots, shelling peas, and George C. Scott. What have I forgotten? Grab some walnuts, dried cranberries, sesame seeds and garlic. Oh! Butter. Honey. Cranberry jelly. Gravy granules, thickening only. Tin Foil. Ceramic dishes. Deep roasting pan that fits in your oven. 

Turkey birds come with two large cavities–not naturally. Inside one you might find giblets packed in plastic–the liver, heart, gizzard, and neck, but it’s vital you check both ends. Get your fingers in and root around. If you’re looking to kill or grievously injure, consider leaving the plastic in, but it won’t taste good and it’ll smell like a factory chimney. I can’t see the neighbours taking to it kindly. There’s too much killing already.

An early morning or late night, but it’s time to put the bird to bed. Chop, chop, chop, the sound of the knife, big chunks of carrot, celery, onion. Cleave a garlic bulb in half, side to side not top to bottom, don’t bother peeling. Watch your fingers–knife’s sharp. Toss it all in your deep roasting pan that fits in your oven. Last Christmas, I gave you my heart. No, I had a jar of rendered bacon fat, I spooned a little of that in my pan to grease it. Or save it for roast potatoes if you have it. Chuck in your chopped carrots, celery and onion. It’s a bed. The bird’s gonna float on it. 

Fire up the mighty oven and preheat to 180°C (350°F). Do you have a thermometer?

Now for inside. Wash an apple—any will do: green, red, or yellow—and slice it in two. Carve out the core. Peel the dry skin off an onion—any will do: yellow or purple—and slice it in two. Wash a lemon, orange, or satsuma—one will do; you choose. Zest some yellow or orange rind, and slice it in two. Smell it? Citrus. Toss the other halves into the pan, along with your trinity and turkey neck. Intensify the flavours.

Turn that bird up on its head, arse in the air. Rest it on the bed of veg. Smush up half a lemon or satsuma, run that juice into the cavity. Get messy. Have fun. Just lob that citrus right in there. Add to that half an apple, and half an onion, and jiggle that into that bird’s booty. Don’t worry if it rattles, we ain’t done yet. If you want to make it herby, pitch in some parsley, sage, rosemary, or thyme–ask Garfunkel or Paul Simon. That reminds me, run some festive canticles, a dash of brandy in your coffee. Or a Baileys if you’re inclined–it’s optional. 

Smack that bird down on the bed, stare into the gaping cavity–contemplate your existence, or hopelessness. The hole needs stuffing. Mother and Father went for Paxo Sage and Onion. It comes in a packet, you mix it with boiling water, best done beforehand. Or fix your own. I’m easy. Read the instructions. Still you can posh it up a bit. Throw in a swirl of butter, while cooling. It’s good to go as is, but I go next level and mash in a pound of pork mince or sausage meat. Get your hands in there. If the kids are awake, get one of them to have a go. “Wash your hands!” I’d tell ’em, “Wash your hands!” Toss in more herbs, salt and pepper–you’ll thank me. Dried cranberries, chopped walnuts and apple diced fine, too, if you like. Be adventurous. I do. Give it a bloody good mix. If there ain’t kids around, flying solo is the way to go.

Wash your hands.

Take a slurp of tea or coffee if you forgot it. No matter if it’s cold. Scoff a Danish butter cookie–it’s Christmas. Onwards we go.

Grab handfuls of stuffing, and pack it in the bird’s holes. You won’t need it all, as the big hole’s jammed with fruit and onion. But seal up the cavities top and bottom. Tuck it under that flap of turkey skin, and slap it, just for fun. Save the rest of the mix for stuffing balls, a little panache to your cause. A timely reminder, if your bird’s stuffed to the brim allow two ticks more for the roasting, but it’s sure worth it. I told you wake up with the crows.

Are you keeping up with me? Get some bacon and butter out of the fridge. Remember don’t skimp. I ask how you’re holding up, as now’s not the time for the tremors. Did you wash them? Hands? Do that again. 

That big bird has white flabby skin, none too pretty, but if you want it to crunch when you tuck in, the doctor is in. The trick is to peel back the skin, just a little, and slide knobs of salty butter in and under–work it in. Butter on top, will only run off. We want the butter to keep the bird moist and tasty. Don’t rush this! Use your fingers. Slide the grease over the thighs and breasts of the bird. I know what you’re thinking. Once you’re in, you’re in. Under the skin. Don’t rip it. Phew! Slurp of tea, coffee or something stronger.

The oven’s hot now. Don’t worry, we’re getting there. The next tiny step will elevate your bird, from commoner, to that of laird. The easiest part of all, drape rashers of bacon over the bird–thighs, breasts, stuffing in the holes, cover it all. As it cooks, all that butter and bacon grease will salt up the bird, and flavour the juice. And the smell when it starts to cook. Don’t drool on your keyboard. Cover the turkey with tin foil, and sling it in the oven. Play Vince Guaraldi jazz, hold back the tears.

While the bird is roasting, there’s no rest for the wicked–keep going. Parboil a big pot of potatoes. Roughly chopped to the same size and shape. How do you like them? Never enough to go around–do plenty. I pray you’ve peeled them the night before Christmas. Salt the water. I tend towards a Maris Piper–creamy yellow flesh, little floury. Roasts up golden and crispy. The water’s bubbling, steam curling, beads of sweat on my brow. Make a coffee–dash of brandy, rum or whisky. Now it won’t take long, the potatoes will soften up, a little fluffy about the edges, firm in the middle, drain off the liquor, save a glug in a jug for later. Lid on your pot, toss ‘em up. Not too much, we ain’t making mashed potato. Set ’em aside. They’ll get their spell in the oven when that bird is done. 

How’s it smelling?

Hope there’s no arguments, but let’s give a lowly vegetable a chance to shine. It’s only one method–mine. I make it once a year. I enjoy a Brussel sprout, but they’re a little contrary to me. Stomach gurgling. I still cross them, like Mother taught me, and I throw them in hot water–no you ain’t in trouble–till you can prick them with a fork. Again, they’ll get their spell in the heat, when that bird is done. Can you hear the bacon sizzling? Don’t open that oven door. Let’s crack on. Lose that sprout liquor, and I use tin foil trays for convenience. I know, I ain’t perfect. And in a small frying pan, fry up a little chopped bacon, walnuts, garlic and sesame seed till golden. Salt and pepper, herb of your choosing. Won’t need any extra fat. Add a knob of butter if in doubt. Toss in the sprouts, toss it all together. Set aside in a tin foil tray. It’s all in the preparation.

Now we’re getting somewhere. Grab a butter cookie. Fresh tea or coffee. A sherry? Weather depending, gaze at the snow, rain or sunshine, wish you were young again, wrap a last-minute present, chew over the true meaning of the festive season. Can you smell the bird cooking?

That’s your cue. Careful! That bird’s hot. Dig out the oven mitts from the drawer, let’s have a first look at our Christmas dinner. Peel back the foil. Indeed, it will still look pale, bacon fat rendering, a little crisping, a slight blush. Butter melted–great! Time to baste it. But the smell should be glorious, suck it in. Tip your pan, say fifteen degrees, and spoon in hand, scoop up some tasty juices, and ladle it over your bird. Don’t forget the legs and wings. Wrap it up again, and shove it back in the oven, with a whump.

Take it easy for a bit. Coast on the flat. Watch Raymond Briggs. Kids scoffing biscuits. Parents an Irish cream with ice. Cold climate readers will know, keep your beers, sparkling whites, and rosé in the snow. The fridge is rammed with goodies. The Christmas lights are twinkling. Turkey smells delicious. Time to baste it. Tear off that foil. Though you can reuse it.

Now while the bird is loose, that bacon sure looks tasty. Indeed, that’s my Christmas Day breakfast. It worked its magic and salted my turkey. So peel it off, and hide it between two slices of bread while nobody’s looking. Then baste that bird like I told you, and throw it back in the oven, sans tin foil. Time to crisp up that skin. Eat your bacon butty–sorry little piggies, vegetarians and vegans. Only human, and not the best example.

A couple of things you could fix beforehand and keep in the fridge. Easiest dish to make, the kids can help here, too. If a packet of bacon has eight rashers, and you cut each rasher in half–mathematics. I don’t think it’s excessive. Get your chipolatas out, and one by one, wrap them in half a rasher. These go quick in my house, so make plenty. When there’s enough in a metal tray, foil on the top, set it aside in a cold place.

Now the same mix I do for my stuffing, I can use it to make my mini puffed pastry sausage rolls. I don’t make pastry from scratch, sorry Granddad. It comes pre-made from the supermarket. But it’s easy enough. Unroll it, add your mix, roll it up, sealed with a lick of melted butter, milk or egg. Chop them up–bite-sized. Brush the top with egg or milk. Bake in the oven and eat or freeze them for another day. The family will love them. But I serve them on Christmas day evening or Boxing day with pickled beetroot and cold turkey. Bung a handful or two in the oven to heat up or a newfangled air-fryer would do the trick.

Now I’m not a stickler for timings, though I am punctual day to day, that’s why I have a thermometer–let me explain. I can’t tell you an exact roasting time, because every bird is different. See, I made a deal with myself a long time ago not to kill anybody with my cooking. Still, I look and smell for the signs that my bird is done, so when the skin is golden brown and the juices run clear, I run it through with the metal gauge, just to be certain. Get that prong right into the fattest part, the thigh, the breast, but not touching bone. So if the colour is pleasing, and the gauge hits 75°C (165°F), it’s done. Set it aside. Sans foil. All that juice is gonna settle and that white meat will firm up, sweet and tender. 

Here’s where it gets crazy. So buttress. Fifty minutes till unveiling. Lash a roasting tray with olive oil, grease, or rendered bacon fat, slam it in the oven. Dial up the heat to 200°C (400°F). Get that oil nice and hot and spitting. When it is, pitch in the parboiled potatoes, and let the sizzling begin. Do it away from you! It’s roasting hot. Add salt and pepper, herbs if you like–oregano or rosemary. Leave ‘em roughly forty minutes. Shake them up after twenty and see where they’re at.

I hope your parsnips and carrots are peeled or scraped. Now’s the time to cook ‘em. I julienne the carrots, and bubble them in water with a spoonful of sugar. It helps the medicine go down. Quarter lengthwise the parsnips in an oven-safe dish, no need to parboil, salt and pepper, olive oil, drizzle of honey, twenty to twenty-five minutes. Keep an eye on them. When ready you can bundle them up with the cooked carrots-add a little more honey. Sort your green veg now, too. 

Chuck the stuffing balls in the same tin as the sausages wrapped in bacon and they go for twenty five minutes. Pop the sprouts in the oven with ten minutes to go, a good blast of heat. The house is zinging with smells. Turkey and bacon, sage and onion, apple and citrus notes. Don’t celebrate. Not yet.

Let’s recap. Apart from the bird, proud, golden, and done. Here’s what you should have in your oven:

Roasting potatoes–check. 

Sausages wrapped in bacon–check.

Stuffing balls–check.

Honey-glazed parsnips–check. 

Caramelising sprouts–check.

On top of the stove–green veggies and carrots bubbling. I reckon you could steam them. 

The bird’s been sitting for forty minutes. Move it with care to a decorative plate, sans tin foil, set aside. In the final twenty focus on gravy. The pan I used to roast the bird, a metal roasting tin, I can throw it on the hob, so I’m gonna. Gaze upon them caramelised juices. All that flavour–the trinity, the garlic, the herbs and the turkey neck glistening, waiting to be the best gravy ever. If it’s a little greasy, there’s a trick with a paper towel. Soak it up. Now, let’s get in there. 

Remember that glug of liquor you saved from the potatoes, slosh it in the roasting pan, and ladle a couple of spoonfuls of water from your cooking vegetables. Get it bubbling away in the roasting tin. Don’t be scared to scrape off all that caramelised onion, carrot and garlic and apple, throw in half a glass of red wine to deglaze the pan, if you’ve a bottle open. Stir it all up. Reduction. My mouth’s watering. Add a little water if it’s too thick, it won’t need stock. Add gravy granules if it ain’t thick enough. But once you get all that dark matter back from the tin, strain it into a pot or a gravy boat. Smush it all through that sieve. Slurp a spoonful to check for salt and pepper.

If my timings you’ve followed, all the festive dishes should come together, just like The Beatles, the dinner’s hot and ready to serve up at the same time. What are you waiting for? Plate up on your best china. Carve up that bird, watch the smiles on their faces light up like Christmas. Oven mitts on. Get it while it’s good and hot. There will be seconds and leftovers. Though there are some that won’t get none.

I’m serious. Now for the speech. Not that one. I ain’t one for kings and queens. I hear your groans. I’ll keep it simple. I’d hate to put a downer on the season. 

I will enjoy my Christmas dinner and keep the fairy lights twinkling. I suggest you do the same. Still, amid all the bustle and turkey, spare a thought–what good can I do today? As I drown in excess, people drown for real. As I stuff my face, people make a stand against genocide by refusing to eat. As I’m showered by gifts, bombs rain down on communities. Spare a thought. We’re all people, all of us unique. Be kind, and not just for the sake of Christmas, be kind always. I beg of you. 

I get how important Christmas is for so many. We grind all year, and Christmas Day is an opportunity to catch our collective breath, to celebrate, to gather with loved ones. Life’s hard enough. I’d never ask anyone to give that up. I can’t surrender my life to fight the good fight–not yet. I don’t have the bottle to hunger strike but my heart goes out to each and every one of them. And I don’t have spare coins to donate. It doesn’t mean I don’t care. I do. And it hurts. But maybe—just maybe—we can spare a thought, take a second to reflect on what good we can do today. Spare a thought for those who don’t get to celebrate. For those who don’t get to live. I can’t apologise for getting political. Don’t we all get a little crazy around the holidays? 

A man I used to work with, never had much time for, but the other day he flashed his true colours–not for the first time. There’s irony here. On a post about the hunger strikers on their 46th day, he reacted with a laughing emoji and a comment that said, essentially, a bacon sandwich could save the day. I gritted my teeth and clenched my fists.

A message to you, not that you’ll read this. Your entitlement to have an opinion means you can choose to remain silent instead you laugh at genocide, people’s right to make a stand, even when that stand is against the killing of innocent men, women and children in their thousands. Do you understand how insensitive you sound? Next time, engage your brain.

I wash my hands of you.

I don’t have the answers. I love Christmas, the smell of turkey roasting and the way fairy lights make everything magical. But I know that magic isn’t real for everyone—not when bombs are falling, not when people are starving themselves to protest injustice. And yes, I’m aware of my privilege. I’m sitting here writing this, surrounded by comforts. But my writing isn’t about pretending to have it all figured out. It’s about asking questions, about encouraging people to think more, to care more. If I can get one person to pause between bites of roast bird and stuffing and think, ‘What good can I do today?’ it’s something, isn’t it? It’s not enough, I know that. It’s never enough. But reflection has to come before action. And for what it’s worth, I try—I boycott companies that profit from war, genocide, and environmental destruction. 

I believe that caring still matters. Thinking still matters. And kindness—well, that always matters.

Eid Milad Majid – Arabic for Merry Christmas (a loose translation). Please correct me if I’m mistaken.