It started with the clove drawer.
I opened it, meant to grab fennel, and there it was—dusty, overfilled, smelling like the holidays we don’t talk about. That spice drawer is too full anyway. Old bags of bay leaf, something sticky near the turmeric. And buried in it—juniper berries. I don’t remember buying them. Maybe I did. Maybe they came with the man who brought wine to Thanksgiving and never really left. He’s gone now. The berries stayed.
I wasn’t planning to cook. Not really. But the weather dropped fast, the way it does here. Sudden and sharp, like the air decided it had somewhere else to be. I needed something to hold. So I opened the old dog-eared issue, the one with Martha’s turkey in soft golden light. I don’t trust those photos. But the brine—her brine—called for everything I already had. Except maybe peace.
What the Original Looked Like
Her Highness doesn’t mess around with her turkey brine. It’s a full commitment—28 cups of water, a bottle of dry Riesling (of course it’s Riesling), bay leaves, mustard seeds, crushed garlic, fennel, thyme. The usual suspects but arranged like a symphony. You simmer the spices. Cool them. Drown the bird in it. Flip it halfway through. It’s beautiful, really. Like something you’d do if you believed structure could fix things.
Her version smells like grace. Or maybe just garlic and wine, which can feel like the same thing when the house is cold and you’re trying to forgive someone.
What I Did Differently
I didn’t have black mustard seeds. Used brown. Maybe that matters to her. I also skipped the fennel—ran out, didn’t want to go back out. Added extra garlic instead, because of course I did. Crushed it like my dad used to, flat palm against the cutting board, lemon juice on his hands after. The garlic hit the pot and I could see him again. Just for a second.
Also—my Riesling was cheap. And open. It worked.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
I boiled the spice base in the old dented pot—the Dutch oven, the one I dropped the night I left him. It wobbles on the burner now. Like me. I stirred too fast at first. It splashed. Smelled like forest and fire and the end of something.
Mae wandered in halfway through and asked if we were having company. I said no. She looked relieved.
I didn’t have a brining bag. Used two garbage bags inside an old cooler and prayed. The turkey slid in like a body into memory—too big, too cold, too familiar. I poured the rest of the water in with one hand and held my breath with the other. It took both.
I tied it shut, tucked it in the fridge, and tried not to think about the last time I brined anything. I think it was when we still had matching stockings. When the vanilla still meant hope instead of hush.
I flipped the bird twelve hours in. Its skin had started to shift—softer, more forgiving. I don’t know if mine did.
A Few Things I Learned
Juniper smells like pretending.
Riesling bubbles more than you’d think.
A cold bird can feel like grief in your hands.
And turning something over in the dark feels… familiar.
What I Did With the Extras
There weren’t any.
We carved it late. Ate it standing up. Mae ate the skin first. I stole a wing. The rest disappeared into silence and aluminum foil.
Would I Make It Again?
Yes. When I need to believe soaking changes things.
That’s As Much As I Remember
The smell lingered the next morning. Wine and bay and old ghosts.
It helped.
If you’re after something warmer, I did a leek thing last December that hit harder.
FAQs
Yeah. It won’t cry about it. Just use more water. Maybe a splash of apple juice if you’re feeling sentimental.
Cooler with ice What if I don’t have a big enough fridge?packs works fine. Just don’t forget it in the garage. I’ve done that. Regret smells like old poultry.
I mean—Her Highness says yes. I say… if you remember, great. If not, the world keeps spinning.
It did for me. The skin felt like it forgave me. That’s all I needed.
Sure. Just scale down. Or don’t. Let the little one swim. We’ve all been overwhelmed in big situations.
Check out More Recipes:
- Martha Stewart Dutch Pancake
- Martha Stewart Easy Basic Pancakes Recipe
- Martha Stewart Cottage Cheese Pancakes
- Martha Stewart Hard Boiled Eggs
Martha Stewart Turkey Brine
Description
A brine that smelled like memory and did what I couldn’t: softened something.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Make the brine base: Poured 4 cups of the water into my dented Dutch oven. Added salt, bay, coriander, juniper, pepper, mustard seeds. Let it simmer until the smell said stop. Stirred it like I was trying to remember something. Turned off the heat. Let it sit while I stared at the floor.
- Prep the container: No fancy bag here. I lined an old cooler with two garbage bags—double, because I don’t trust plastic. Turkey went in breast-down. Heavy. Cold. Loud.
- Pour and assemble: Tipped in the warm spice mixture first. It clouded the bag like memory. Then the rest of the water, the cheap wine, the sliced onions, smashed garlic, full bunch of thyme. No chopping. Just threw it in.
- Seal it: Twisted the top of the bags, pushed out the air. Tied it tight like I tie off regret—quick, careless, slightly too late. Shoved the cooler into the fridge. Said a soft maybe under my breath.
- Flip the bird: Halfway through (about 12 hours), I turned the turkey over. Not gracefully. Water spilled. Smelled like something ancient. Cleaned it up with the towel that still smells like the kitchen fire from last spring.
- Finish: After 24 hours, I pulled it out. Skin felt changed. Dried it off with paper towels I’d accidentally used on my face the night before. Didn’t roast it yet. That’s a separate day. That’s a separate version of me.