Thickest Part of the Thigh, huh?

Meat Thermometer

Every year when it came to the interminable turkey-eating season—November to New Year’s Day—I stood there holding a meat thermometer, hands trembling, face twitching, wondering if this bird would be the one I actually cooked correctly. You see, it seemed no matter what I did, I missed the mark so spectacularly that, for a while, I left the protein-cooking part of the day in The One’s hands, and I took up the immensely less intimidating baking portion of the program. But not before one memorable Thanksgiving when I had to call our friend Matty, a former butcher, into the kitchen to salvage the bird, not to mention my flagging self-esteem. (To his great credit, Matty, a man who’ll use anyone’s misfortunes as grist for a few minutes of hilarious stand-up cocktail chatter, never breathed a word of it. Or, at least, never in my presence.)

What happened was, the bird was done an hour before it was supposed to be. Luckily, the guests had already arrived. I made some excuse about setting the timer incorrectly and corralled everyone into the dining room before they even had a chance to enjoy a glass of wine and my homemade cheese straws bow ties. Then, when I carved the breast (thankfully in the kitchen), it was like watching a scene from Saw V–bloody hell. Apparently in my haste, I had pushed the digital thermometer into the thickest part of the thigh and right on through the other side and into the bird’s unstuffed cavity. There, the probe became superheated super-fast, not giving the turkey enough time to roast properly. So I shooed everyone back into the living room (except Matty), and we reassembled the bird, stuck it back in a slow oven, then all of us had to make that one bowl of cheese straw bow ties and some roasted Marcona almonds last an hour.

My problem was: How to tell where the thickest part of the thigh was so I could jab a thermometer into it. It seems like a no-brainer, but without an arthroscopic camera attached at the end of my thermometer’s probe, I was lost. Then I discovered an absolutely surefire way of hitting that sweet spot every time, and my birds have been perfectly cooked ever since.

First, roast your turkey whichever method suits you. To take its temperature, remove the beast from the oven after 30 minutes and stick the thermometer into the thigh. I use an ovenproof digital thermometer with an alarm so I can monitor the temperature during cooking. Now, jab around in there, you’ll see the temperature rise and fall. Find the coldest spot. That’s where the least amount of heat has penetrated and therefore it’s the thickest section. Leave the thermometer where it is, slide the bird back in the oven, and wait until the desired temperature is reached. I go with 165 degrees. I feel comfortable with that. For the longest time the USDA said 180 to 185 degrees was the proper thigh temperature, and the result was a bird that was chokingly dry. But in 2006, the department mercifully revised its temperature rules, which means we all have a chance for a better, juicier turkey. Of course, they still demand a high 160 degrees for medium pork, but I never go above 150, and, hey, I’m still here. But that’s another story best left for a different holiday.

David Leite's signature
Comments
Comments
  1. Sarah B says:

    Great post. I’ve always found that “thickest part of the thigh” language so mysterious. What the heck does that mean?

  2. Leanne says:

    Okay—we’re hosting Thanksgiving at our house this year, which means I’m cooking a whole turkey for the first time (and I know it’s not “just like roasting a chicken”). I’m going to give your method a try, but I’m also going to place all blame completely on you if we end up eating the ham instead.

  3. David Leite says:

    Leanne, um, well, that’s a lot of pressure. But it did work for me. Why not check out the video: How to Tell When Your Thanksgiving Turkey is Done? That can help, too.

  4. Curtiss says:

    Why can’t someone just point to the thigh and take a picture. Where the heck is the thigh? Got the breasts, got the drumsticks, know where the backbone is, neck is in the garbage pail. Where is the thigh?

  5. Curtiss Brown says:

    Thanks David! Good information. My bird is in the oven and family is gaily talking family history while I worry. My temp prob went in through the skin between the drumstick and the breast pointed down toward the tail. I think through the thigh. I warmed up the turkey and found the coolest part thirty minutes after putting the bird in the oven, by slowly sticking the prob in the bird and watching the temp. I’m at 127.

    • David Leite says:

      Curtiss, stick with it, my friend. You’ll be fine. You’ve done everything right, so I expect it will great. Let us know how it turns out.

  6. Curtiss Brown says:

    They love it! The turkey is a success! Thanks for all your help!

    • David Leite says:

      Huzzah, huzzah, Curtiss! I’m so glad we could be of help. Wishing you and yours a warm, wonderful holiday and a peaceful and tasty 2011.

  7. ruthie says:

    Ah, turkey roasting! I’m afraid I follow one of those arcane rituals involving brown paper grocery bags (learned from my grandmother) and searing temps, until I lower it to something more normal. Do not use a clock or timer, just my sniffer to tell me it’s just about time, and the old poke a knife between the leg and the body to see if the juice runs pink or not.

    It’s always been done when everything else was ready. Like I said, arcane. Don’t know how or why, but it’s always worked for me.

    Leave the protein portion to them what enjoys the gig. You do the orgasmically delicious desserts that very few can master.

    • David Leite says:

      ruthie, that means you are a born roaster. And they’re far and few between. My mom is one and can smell when a roast is done–even from the basement!

      The best thing about Thanksgiving for me is indeed the dessert. Well, that and the stuffing. And the mashed potatoes. And, well, the gravy. In fact, my least favorite part of Thanksgiving is the turkey. Hmmmm.

      • ruthie says:

        That’s because you harbor hidden resentment, secretly blaming it for your roasting…um…comeuppances. LOL! I know what you mean about loving the whole deal, though. I have to do turkey at least two or three times a year. It’s the only way to avoid that turkey coma and the accompanying discomfort at Thanksgiving. When I know I don’t have to wait another year for my fix, I can control myself.

        • David Leite says:

          So few people, me included, make turkey only once a year. I was speaking to several Brits and Canadians when The One and I were on a cruise recently, and they make whole turkeys all the time. We should take a page from their cookbook…so to speak.

  8. pa lo says:

    U ARE MY HERO…. I think…. let u know after I cook my $ heritage birdy.

    • David Leite says:

      pa lo, now you’ve got me nervous! Those bird are quite expensive. Please do let me know, and Happy Thanksgiving.

Have something to say?

Then tell us. Have a picture you'd like to add to your comment? Send it along. Covet one of those spiffy pictures of yourself to go along with your comment? Get a free Gravatar. And as always, please take a gander at our comment policy before posting.

*

Daily Subscription

Enter your email address and get all of our updates sent to your inbox the moment they're posted. Be the first on your block to be in the know.

Preview daily e-mail

Weekly Subscription

Hate tons of emails? Do you prefer info delivered in a neat, easy-to-digest (pun intended) form? Then enter your email address for our weekly newsletter.

Preview weekly e-mail