The kitchen smelled like broth and wet rope.
Not bad—just strange.
November was late this year, and I was late with it.
The fridge had grapes rolling in the drawer like they were hiding. The sage was limp. The bread looked fine but felt hollow. Still—I took out the turkey. I didn’t want to make it. But I needed to.
Her Highness called it Upside Down Turkey.
Figs. Buttered bread. A trick of gravity.
She claimed it helped the breast stay moist. I didn’t care about the science—I just liked the name. Upside down felt about right.
What the Original Looked Like
Martha’s version doesn’t flinch.
Dry brine overnight. Flip it. Flip it back. Cook it on ciabatta like a throne of butter and toast. Roast at a roar, then drop the heat. Figs and grapes for garnish—like it’s posing for a painting.
It’s beautiful.
But it also feels like a turkey made for people who want to be seen cooking turkey.
I wasn’t in that mood.
What I Did Differently
I skipped the plastic wrap. Just couldn’t find it. Used foil. Maybe that’s why it smelled odd.
I only had half a loaf of ciabatta, so I tore it and tried to line it up like a jigsaw puzzle beneath the bird. It didn’t fit. But it browned.
And I used salted butter. On purpose. I didn’t want to care if it came out too salty. I wanted it to taste like someone meant it.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
The dry brine went on fast—no ceremony. Mae was texting me about the dog’s Halloween costume and I forgot to check the time.
Rinsed it too early. Let it sit, damp and confused, on the counter like a guest who arrived too soon.
The oven rattled when I turned it up. 425.
I remembered burning toast once at that temp.
That was the day he said he’d be late and never came back.
Anyway. I buttered the bread.
I lowered the turkey onto it breast-side down like I was tucking in a secret. The skin sagged. It hissed.
Forty-five minutes later, I flipped it.
Not gracefully. The leg slipped. The juices ran. The spoon clanged inside the cavity like a warning bell.
I poured in the broth.
The smell changed. It went from metallic to mellow.
Sage. Grape. Something like old perfume.
Mae came in to ask if she could take the last root beer. She didn’t notice the turkey.
I did.
I basted it every time the timer told me to—but not because of Martha. Because it felt like a ritual I could control.
A Few Things I Learned
The bread under the turkey? It turns to gold.
Don’t throw it out like she says. Eat it in secret.
Salted butter isn’t wrong.
It just makes the gravy louder.
And flipping a hot bird isn’t elegant. But neither am I.
It still landed right side up.
What I Did With the Extras
Mae ate some cold. Called it “juicy but weird.”
The dog got a piece of the dark meat and promptly sneezed twice.
I sat on the floor and tore at the bread with my hands.
No plate. No thought. Just warmth and quiet.
Would I Make It Again?
Maybe.
When I need to remember that turning things over doesn’t ruin them.
That’s As Much As I Remember
The oven light was still on when the sun went down.
I didn’t turn it off right away.
It felt like someone was still watching the bird.
If you want something warmer, I did a leek thing last December that hit harder.
But this one… this one tasted like turning back time with your hands full.
FAQs
You can, sure. but don’t. it turns into this golden, salty, bird-soaked toast you’ll eat standing at the stove like it’s a secret.
Use anything with guts. sourdough. a crusty baguette. even sandwich bread in a pinch—though it might cry under the weight.
Yeah, brine it the night before. even the morning of, if life’s chaotic. just give it time to breathe before it hits the oven.
Yep. carve it first. wrap it tight. it loses a little soul in the freezer, but comes back with gravy.
Check out More Recipes:
Martha Stewart Upside Down Turkey
Description
Roasted with gravity and grief. Warmed the kitchen more than the company did.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Roasted with gravity and grief. Warmed the kitchen more than the company did.
- Prepare the bird: patted it dry without ceremony. salt and pepper rubbed in like I was mad at it. forgot the cavity, went back and fixed it. brined overnight in foil because the plastic wrap vanished.
- Bring to temp: rinsed it in the sink like it hurt my feelings. dried it with paper towels that ran out halfway through. left it out while the oven preheated and I stared at nothing.
- Butter the bread: sliced what bread I had. not enough, but I made it fit. buttered both sides, didn’t care what she said. lined it in the V-rack like laying bricks. soft ones.
- Position the turkey: dropped it breast-side down on the bread. it slumped like I felt. trussed it loosely. too loosely. figured heat would fix it.
- Roast, first round: shoved it in at 425°F. set a timer and forgot it once. flipped it at 45 minutes. used a towel and the wooden spoon with the burn mark from 2011. the leg tore a bit. that’s life.
- Add the broth: poured the stock in like I meant it. it hissed. the smell changed—more mellow, less sharp. dropped the oven to 350°F and kept going.
- Baste and wait: every twenty minutes, or when I remembered. juices pooled. bread darkened. I stood there too long doing nothing.
- Rest and serve: pulled it out when the thigh hit temp. rested it on the platter next to figs I didn’t slice and grapes that rolled away. Mae didn’t comment. I took that as approval.