Brining a Turkey

I love brining. I brine pork chops for an hour or two before I grill. I brine chickens. And as unwieldy as it is, I brine turkeys if I have the time. Once you brine protein, you get a kind of immunity from dryness and overcooking. Through the magic process of osmosis, the salted water gets into the cells of the turkey. Then, through some other science-y process I understand even less, the cells change structure and, with heat, keep the water inside. That keeps things moist.

A good rule is to brine a hour per pound. So a 14-pound turkey needs a brine overnight. And because that water is going into the cells, make sure it tastes like something more than salt. I like to mix in some sugar and add a lot of herbs and peppercorns.

If you have a big turkey and not much refrigerator space, use a cooler lined with two plastic garbage sacks. You fill the sacks with turkey and brine, seal it up and dump ice all over it. If you are above the Mason-Dixon line, keep it on the back porch where it’s nice and cool. Replenish the ice as needed.

Lots of cooks swear by brining because it does give you moister, more tender meat. Salt gets absorbed by the muscle tissue, loosens up the fiber proteins, and helps them retain water as they coagulate during the cooking.

I don’t brine because I feel that the collateral damage it does outweighs its advantages. Brining makes it harder to get a crisp skin (the skin retains water too), leaves the cooking juices too salty to use for sauce or gravy, and gives the breast meat the texture of deli turkey breast rather than roasted turkey breast, bouncy like a brine-cured ham. Not what I’m looking for on Thanksgiving.