The art behind turning a turkey into a pancake, just in time for Thanksgiving.
by Jan Hostyn
With my palms stacked one on top of the other and my arms perfectly straight, I pressed down with all my might. After some momentary resistance, the slippery mass beneath my hands surrendered and I heard the most satisfying crrrack ever. Splayed inelegantly beneath me was my once-somewhat-round Thanksgiving dinner, now smushed flat as a pancake (well, as pancake-like as a 15-pound turkey can ever strive to be).
I felt a huge sense of accomplishment. You see, I had just successfully spatchcocked a turkey.
The term spatchcocking may sound elaborate, but it’s not. It’s really just a fancy way to describe the process of removing a chicken/turkey/bird’s backbone, cracking the breastbone and then laying it flat (aka butterflying).
Spatchcocking turkey is my newest obsession. It is beyond miraculous.
Up until I discovered spatchcocking, I hated roasting turkey. Despised it, dreaded it, feared it. Not because I was a turkey-roasting newbie—I had already had a fair number of turkey-roasting experiences in my not-so-brief life. But turkey and I simply did not get along. The turkeys I had encountered were notoriously difficult and uncooperative, not to mention completely inconsistent. They prided themselves on being ready either much earlier than anticipated, or (more often) much later. Never, ever, on time.
Which was a problem. That meant I was not in control and I very much need to be in control, especially when I’m in the kitchen. Especially, when I’m in the kitchen cooking for company. So, when a turkey isn’t done when it’s supposed to be, well, it messes everything up.
I kept swearing that the last turkey I roasted would be my last one ever until I stumbled upon an article on spatchcocking.
It claimed that a 14-pound spatch-cocked turkey could be roasted in just 80 minutes!
My brain started churning—if it only took 80 minutes from start to finish, how much room for error could there possibly be? Even an extremely stubborn and uncooperative turkey couldn’t be off by much at all, or could it? My typical roasted turkey could vary by as much as 45 minutes (sometimes more).
It sounded beyond perfect.
Well, almost…
Spatchcocking a turkey essentially involves cutting out its backbone, flipping it over and then pressing down on the breast until you hear that satisfying crack. A bit more maneuvering and voila, you have a splayed-flat turkey.
Lovely in theory, but there was a slight problem. Someone has to actually cut out the backbone. And cutting out a turkey’s backbone involves not only owning a pair of poultry shears but actually using those poultry shears.
That was a problem. You see, I had survived adult life without even venturing close to a set of poultry shears, let alone owning any. Growing up, we lived on a farm. And on that farm, we raised chickens. We killed those chickens. We plucked those chickens. So, I had already experienced more than enough chicken butchery to last me a lifetime.
But the thought of hosting a turkey dinner that I would actually have control over was just far too enticing.
So, before I could talk myself out of it, I was the somewhat tentative owner of a brand-new pair of poultry shears. I tucked them safely away out of sight and tried not to think about them again until the big day came.
Before I could tackle anything that day, though, I had to give myself a bit of a pep talk. With my confidence bolstered, I armed myself with a pair of disposable gloves, it was turkey time.
I hauled my farmers’ market turkey out of the fridge and plopped it into the kitchen sink. Not the most convenient location, granted, but the easiest one to bleach (yes, that’s another thing of mine: bleaching everything and anything that comes into contact with raw meat).
Out came the poultry shears.
I lined up my shears, took a deep breath and—snip. Much to my surprise, the shears cut through the turkey with relative ease. There was a brief moment or two about halfway through when panic started to set in—mid-back, the bones are definitely thicker and much more stubborn. But after a bit more concentrated pressure, success, along with a great deal of relief.
Pressing down on the breastbone to flatten the turkey had its own learning curve; the breast was so slippery, my gloved hands kept sliding off. It was a quick and doable learning curve though—a dishtowel draped on top of the breast did the trick. Before I knew it (and only a few choice words later), I had a spatchcocked turkey splayed before me.
A quick dry brine and into the fridge it went.
Cooking it was amazingly quick and simple. And practically bang-on in terms of timing—I think it was done a whopping three minutes early. Even multiple spatchcocked turkeys later, the timing has never been off by more than 10 minutes.
Spatchcocking is now the only way I will roast turkey.
There is one small drawback. Splaying your turkey flat isn’t exactly aesthetically pleasing, so it is definitely not centerpiece turkey material.
It does have other benefits beyond the quick cooking time, though. Since spatchcocking exposes the legs and thighs, they cook more quickly than on a traditional roast turkey. That means no more overcooking the breast while you wait for the dark meat to reach the right temperature. And that means you end up with incredibly juicy turkey meat.
Oh and the skin! It all comes out wonderfully crispy. And if your family loves crispy skin, more skin means less fighting!
As much as I love spatchcocking turkeys (well, the end result, anyway), that’s where it ends. Absolutely no pigs or cows, thank you very much.