The string drawer was jammed again.
I yanked it, hard, and everything slid out—twine, old cookie cutters, a tape measure, a stapler I haven’t used since Mae was in elementary school. I was already sweating and the oven wasn’t even on.
Martha’s parchment-wrapped turkey had been sitting in my mind like a dare. Three layers of paper. Staples. Butter under your nails. It’s the kind of recipe that looks clean on the page but feels like chaos when your hands are greasy and the twine is tangled and you’re trying not to cry.
I wasn’t even sure why I wanted to make it.
I just… needed to wrap something up.
What the Original Looked Like
Her Highness’s version is textbook precision.
One 14-pound bird, stuffed in two directions. Buttered like a spa client. Then—this part is pure Martha—wrapped in layers of parchment, rotated 90 degrees each time, stapled like she’s mailing it to God. You roast it sealed like a secret, then unwrap it at the end so the skin crisps up and the house starts to smell like effort.
It’s beautiful. It’s smart. It’s everything she’s always been.
Clean, controlled, contained.
What I Did Differently
I couldn’t find my stapler at first. Used one of those office ones with the neon top and weak spring. Only half the staples went in straight. I swore under my breath.
Also—I didn’t have pear sausage stuffing. Used the end of a sourdough loaf, some onions, a bruised apple, and what might’ve been thyme. Or oregano. Or something green.
The last layer of parchment was too short. So I used two sheets, crisscrossed. Called it a patchwork bird. Felt appropriate.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
Let the turkey sit for an hour. Mae came downstairs, saw it on the counter, said, “That thing looks like it wants to fight someone.”
I agreed.
Patted it dry with a paper towel that disintegrated halfway through.
Started stuffing it—realized I’d made too much. Ate a few spoonfuls straight from the bowl like it was cereal. Kept going.
Tied the legs with the only twine I had left (blue baker’s twine). Martha would disapprove. That made it better.
Rubbing butter onto cold skin is a spiritual practice. Or punishment.
It stuck under my nails. Got into my bracelet. Mae asked me something about climate change and I just nodded.
Wrapped it once.
Then again.
Then panicked and added another sheet just in case. My fingers were shaking. Not from the turkey. Just… everything.
Roasted it in silence.
Unwrapped it like a gift I wasn’t sure I deserved.
The skin was golden and tight.
I was not.
Why I Used Staples (And Still Felt Unraveled)
Martha’s method is elegant. The staples keep it in place. You feel like you’re doing something right just by following the folds.
But halfway through wrapping, I realized—this wasn’t about the turkey.
I wanted to wrap myself in something.
Hold it all in.
Staple it shut.
It didn’t work. But the bird was beautiful anyway.
Would I Make It Again?
Yes. But probably when no one’s watching.
That’s As Much As I Remember
The skin crackled when I carved it.
It was the only crisp thing in the room.
FAQs
Yeah. But then it’s just turkey. The paper’s part of the spell.
Toss in herbs and citrus. Or nothing. Or fill it with your own noise.
Mine wasn’t. The wrapping traps the steam. Like therapy, but hotter.
Only if you want to feel like you’re doing arts and crafts with your trauma.
Sure. Wrap it, chill it, roast it when you’re ready to deal with things.
Check out More Recipes:
- Martha Stewart Easy Basic Pancakes Recipe
- Martha Stewart Cottage Cheese Pancakes
- Martha Stewart Hard Boiled Eggs
- Martha Stewart Turkey Brine
Martha Stewart Parchment Paper Turkey
Description
Wrapped it in paper. Didn’t stop the feelings. Still good.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Let the turkey sit: Took it out, left it on the counter for an hour. Room felt colder. That helped.
- Stuff the bird: Shoved bread mixture into both ends—neck and body. Some fell out. I put it back in. You do what you can.
- Season and butter it: Rubbed soft butter across the whole thing. Almost therapeutic. Sprinkled too much pepper. Then added more salt because… I don’t know. Control?
- Wrap in parchment: Laid down one big sheet. Smeared it with butter like I was painting over regret. Rolled the turkey, stapled the ends. Rotated. Did it again. Final wrap looked like a bandage job. Still held.
- Roast it: Put it in a shallow pan with a rack. Roasted at 325°F for 2 hours and 45 minutes. Read a book I didn’t like while it cooked.
- Unwrap and brown it: Pulled it out, cut the parchment like opening a love letter I shouldn’t have read. Raised oven to 425°F. Put the bird back in, bare now, golden skin emerging. Roasted another 45 minutes.
- Rest it: Took it out. Let it sit. Just… sat with it. For 45 minutes. Mae didn’t talk. I didn’t either.
- Bake the stuffing separately: Tossed the extra stuffing into a little Pyrex. Baked it next to the bird until it bubbled and whispered forgiveness.
- Make the gravy: Poured drippings into a pan. Whispered thanks to the bird. Stirred until it thickened. Tasted like effort.