The house was too warm, which meant I had the oven on before I even had a plan.
I’d pulled the turkey out the night before, because apparently I trust my future self more than I should.
The stuffing was still cold. The wine was open. The dog was pacing.
Martha’s stuffed turkey—the one with the butter-soaked cheesecloth and the root vegetables that feel vaguely Victorian—was scrawled on the back of a grocery list I’d already used to blot gravy. Her Highness, once again, had a process. And I was feeling a little reckless.
What the Original Looked Like
Martha’s version starts strong—450°F, no apology.
You soak cheesecloth in a butter and white wine bath (I mean, honestly), wrap the bird like you’re tucking it in for a long winter nap, and let it roast over a bed of parsnips, celeriac, turnip, and carrot. There’s also stuffing, but she keeps it loose. Polite. Unrushed.
Every 30 minutes, you baste like it’s penance.
You rotate. You tent. You check. You believe.
It’s a turkey wrapped in ritual. Buttered obedience.
What I Did Differently
I didn’t have celeriac.
I used a sad apple and half a fennel bulb instead. Tasted like defiance. Smelled like soup from 1993.
The cheesecloth soaked a little too long and turned into a kind of soft, buttery ghost. I slapped it on anyway.
I forgot to truss the legs. So they flopped a little—like the bird had something to say about all this.
And I added thyme to the butter mix, because Mae handed me the jar and said, “This smells like Sunday.” That felt like reason enough.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
The stuffing went in with hesitation and memory.
I always worry about stuffing the bird.
Nan used to swear by it. My ex said it was dangerous.
I listened to neither.
I rubbed the butter on with my bare hands. Cold butter. Cold bird. Something about it made me emotional.
The cheesecloth landed with a plop. I tried to smooth it. Failed. Laughed.
The oven blasted me when I opened the door, and I lost half a basting brush to the side of the pan an hour later. The house smelled like roast, root, and ghosts.
Mae came in mid-baste and said, “It smells like Thanksgiving and old socks.”
She wasn’t wrong.
What I Learned
Don’t skip the cheesecloth. It’s weirdly soothing. Like giving the bird a security blanket.
Stuffing inside the turkey does something soft and nostalgic. Like sleeping under too many quilts.
And you don’t need to follow all the rules. Just most of them. The butter does the rest.
Would I Make It Again?
Yes.
Especially when the house needs to smell like something bigger than silence.
That’s As Much As I Remember
The cheesecloth looked like a story.
The bird came out golden and tired.
So did I.
if you want a version without stuffing, I made her cheesecloth roast a few months back and forgot the foil. still worked. loud skin. worth it.
FAQs
It helps. keeps the skin soft until it’s time to crisp. plus, it feels like magic.
You can. but don’t let it sit too long. I stuffed it right before roasting and worried anyway.
Use what you’ve got. sweet potato. apple. even more onion. roast forgives.
Nah. it helps. but if you forget once, it won’t crumble. just listen to the skin.
Yeah—if it hits 160°F. use a thermometer. or trust the steam and your instincts.
Check out More Recipes:
- Martha Stewart Parchment Paper Turkey
- Martha Stewart Turkey Cheesecloth
- Martha Stewart Turkey Gravy
- Martha Stewart Roast Turkey
Martha Stewart Stuffed Turkey
Description
Wrapped in cheesecloth, roasted in butter, remembered in fragments.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Let the turkey sit: I took the bird out two hours before, let it stand awkward and cold on the counter while I gathered nerve and butter.
- Preheat the oven: 450°F. No fear.
- Butter mix: Melted the butter with white wine and tossed in a little thyme. Soaked the cheesecloth in it until it felt like warm laundry. Didn’t measure.
- Stuff the turkey: Loosely. Not jammed. Just filled like it had something to carry but not something to prove. Tied the neck flap with toothpicks. Forgot the legs.
- Layer the veg: Root stuff in the pan—parsnip, carrot, turnip, apple, fennel. Piled like it mattered. Added stock (I cheated and used boxed broth) and set the rack above it.
- Butter the skin: Rubbed with the softened butter. Hands got greasy. Didn’t mind.
- Drape the cloth: Lifted it like a blessing. Covered the bird gently.
- Roast and baste: 30 minutes at 450, then down to 350°F. Basted every half hour with the leftover butter-wine bath. Forgot once. Saved it later.
- Remove the cloth: After 3 hours. Skin underneath was pale but hopeful. Turned the pan, kept going.
- Check doneness: Thigh hit 180°F, stuffing around 150. Close enough to call it safe.
- Rest: 30 minutes minimum. I poured wine and sat with the dog while steam rose off the counter.