RECIPE: Turducken Sausage

All the Flavor, None of the Frankenstein

by Kelsey Dake

Resist the urge. Fight it with every ounce of your being. Don’t do it buddy. Don’t ask your neighborhood butcher to make you a turducken this Thanksgiving season.

Yes, I’m talking about that Turkey Day unicorn, that El Dorado of poultry, the mythical roasting trifecta that is a chicken stuffed into a duck, stuffed into a turkey.

In principle, I understand the fascination. This legendary nesting doll of holiday meats has all the components to become epicurean ambrosia; golden brown turkey skin on the outside, self-basting in its own juices, and three distinct meat flavors intermingling to create culinary alchemy. Carved at the dinner table into breathtaking concentric meat circles, it presents like a Michelin star meal. Giddy with anticipation, your salivating guests are brought to tears with the first bacchanal bite.

Hate to break it to you, but some things are best left to the imagination.

Let’s say you found an expert butcher willing to roll up their sleeves, debone the chicken and the duck, and cram them into the turkey cavity, don’t think it’s gonna look like a Martha Stewart magazine cover photo. Even the biggest turkey loaded with this poultry payload requires some pretty invasive surgery to make it all fit. The results look more Frankenstein than Bobby Flay.

A more successful turducken requires deboning the turkey as well. Rolled all three birds together into what the French call a Ballotine—of course the French have a word for everything! But once this cylindrical meat sock is in the oven, the thermodynamics are all off. The turkey always overcooks, the duck fat never renders completely, and the chicken—buried in too much fat and juice—develops a flaccid, spongy texture. If you miraculously manage to carve the bird in a way that gives your guests a portion of each protein, expect them to note the crumbly edges, gelatinous middles and chewy centers. They’ll be crying alright, but not tears of joy.

If this hasn’t discouraged you yet, you might want to learn more about the culinary art of engastration (yes, that’s a word) before you get busy. The Romans loved to stuff one food inside another, and the French perfected things in the 19th Century, but I’ve found some great resources like Julia Child’s deboning guide in, "Mastering the Art of French Cooking,” and ingredients and brief descriptions in Escoffier "Le Guide Culinaire." For the culinary historians, check out "Le Viandier" by Taillevent. But don’t expect play by play instructions.

And for the rest of you, there is still hope.

Just in time for the holidays, I’m offering you a little present from the vaults of the Electric City Butcher cook book. You can enjoy the conceptual flavors of a turducken with more consistency and less hassle with one of my favorite sausage recipes. Get some dark meat of each bird, (chicken, duck, turkey), season them in a savory autumnal mix of sage, five-space, cranberries, orange zest and parsley, and wash things down with a little brandy.

This sausage delivers all those legendary flavors you were dreaming of, without the culinary nightmare. Add it to your favorite stuffing recipe, fold it into a casserole, or fry it up the next morning with eggs—this is the turducken experience you actually want.

Trust me on this one—leave the turducken to legend and let the sausage steal the show.

Now, who's ready to make some sausage? (scroll down for recipe)

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