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On Monday, fresh off the high of pulling off Canadian Thanksgiving dinner, I decided to make turkey broth. It was something I felt very, very happy to do, especially with my mom and other dad, Peter, sitting in my living room reading and the leaves changing and the wind brisk. I pulled out my biggest pot, the carcass and neck, chopped up a few carrots, an onion, and dropped everything in.

Having just read an eye-opening article about broth in one of my food magazines, I made sure to add cold water to the mixture, turned up the heat and resumed reading my very good book, “Sea of Glory” by Nathaniel Philbrick. Soon, I’d nodded off and slept the cozy sleep of a girl whose parents are nearby.

Admittedly, I was still tired from the day before. I’d been preparing for Thanksgiving dinner (which is six weeks earlier in Canada because our harvest is earlier) for a month, a process that involved scouring my food magazines for new recipes. I’d decided I would try a whole new set of dishes this year, every one of which had turned out rather well. The coup de grâce, however, was the turkey.

I’d gotten it in Berea from Forever Farm, whose owner, Bryce Baumann, raises heirloom broad breasted bronze turkeys. In the summer, Baumann assured me he could slaughter one of his specimens in time for my festivities and I’d been looking forward to picking it up every since. A trip to Baumann’s picturesque pastures had not disappointed, and my mom and I returned feeling heartened by the wholesomeness of the farm.

After getting home, I immediately started preparing a brine in which to soak the turkey, a much-heralded technique that I’d decided to try this year. As such, I submerged the bird in salted, sugared, garlicked and iced water. Twenty-four hours later, I pulled the now somewhat-blanched turkey out of the brine and placed it in our roasting pan. I lovingly rubbed it with salt before slathering it with butter and fresh sage. My 375?F oven welcomed the bird happily and soon the memory-laced scent of turkey was wafting through the house.

When it came time to actually eat the bird, it did not disappoint. Topped with apple cider gravy, it was moist and flavorful, with a richness that I attribute to its heirloom nature.

So, the next day, I decided not one bit of it was going to go to waste. Hence, the broth, which by the time I woke up half an hour later, had developed its foam. I carefully skimmed it off to remove the impurities and then let it be.

Four hours later, I had my first-ever crystal clear broth, whose flavor was so round it only needed a scant amount of salt and pepper — a fact that surprised me since my broths had always needed a considerable amount of seasoning before.

After draining the bones and onions in my Chinois, I set the broth in a bowl to cool. It had been a lovely day and would only get better: It was time for Bunco and my mom would get to meet my much-publicized new lady friends.

As promised, we had a great time and I even came home $40 richer.

We sat down at the kitchen island, where Peter and Husband had started eating Thanksgiving leftovers. That’s when I noticed the bowl in the sink.

“Oh,” I said, pleased. “Did you put the broth in the freezer?”

Husband stopped chewing.

“Umm, no.”

“So, where it is?” I asked.

“Umm, I don’t know. I thought you’d put it away.”

“No. It was in that bowl. The bowl that’s in the sink.”

During this exchange, my voice has started getting increasingly shrill.

“You didn’t,” I said as Husband swallowed.

“I thought it was dish water,” he whispered. “I thought I was cleaning up.”

In that moment, many things could have streamed from my mouth. But with my parents watching, I zipped it Austin Powers-style and held the fury in.

Husband knew it and for one of the first times since I’ve known him, which is a long, long time, he looked sheepish. He stared at me helplessly. And then my mom, feeling bone-tingling sympathy for her beloved son-in-law, turned to Peter.

“Well? Where were you in all this, Mister?”

Staff writer Tara Kaprowy can be reached by e-mail at tkaprowy@sentinel-echo.com.

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