Baked Manicotti with Turkey Sausage

Last day of May, and the Memphis heat is fully committed now. You know summer has arrived in Memphis not by the calendar but by the sound of air conditioners clicking on up and down Deadrick Avenue, a mechanical chorus that starts in late May and doesn't stop until October. I walked my route this week in what felt like a steam room — 92 degrees, 80 percent humidity, the kind of weather that makes you question every life choice that led you to a career involving outdoor walking in the Deep South.

My knee was bad this week. Not the usual ache — a sharper pain, the kind that makes you adjust your gait and hope nobody notices. A customer on my route, Mrs. Chen on Rozelle Street, said, "Earl, you're limping." I said, "Mrs. Chen, I'm not limping, I'm improvising." She gave me the look my mother gives me when I say something she considers foolish, which is a look that transcends culture and language because mothers are universal in their ability to see through their sons' nonsense.

Rosetta noticed the limp too, of course. Rosetta notices everything, on account of being a nurse and a wife and therefore in possession of two separate sets of observational superpowers. She made me ice the knee Tuesday night and said, "Earl, you need to see Dr. Barker." I said, "I see Dr. Barker every year." She said, "You need to see him about the knee, not for small talk about the Grizzlies." Fair point.

Wednesday after work I stopped by Tyrone's place in Raleigh. My baby brother is fifty-two and works for the city — parks and recreation, maintenance. He's divorced, has two grown kids in Chicago, and lives alone in a house that he keeps clean the way bachelors keep houses clean, which is to say the surfaces are wiped but the corners tell the truth. I brought over some pulled pork from the previous weekend's smoke and we sat on his porch and ate sandwiches and played cards and talked about nothing, which is the best kind of talking between brothers because it means everything is fine and the nothing is just the comfortable sound of being fine together.

Tyrone asked about Mama. I told him about the clear days and the cloudy days — the days she knows Denise is gone and the days she asks about her — and Tyrone got quiet the way he gets quiet when he's feeling something he doesn't want to name. We are Johnson men. We feel deeply and express poorly and cook to fill the gap.

Saturday I made something different: smoked turkey legs. Renaissance fair food, you might say, and you'd be right, but a smoked turkey leg done properly is a magnificent thing — brined overnight in salt water with garlic and peppercorns and bay leaves, then smoked at 250 over hickory for three and a half hours until the skin is dark and crispy and the meat pulls clean from the bone. I made them because DeAndre asked for them. A six-year-old asked his grandfather for smoked turkey legs, and if that isn't a reason to fire up the smoker, friend, I don't know what is.

Walter Jr. picked them up Saturday evening — four turkey legs, wrapped in foil, still warm. He texted me a picture later: DeAndre holding a turkey leg bigger than his forearm, grinning like he'd been handed the keys to the kingdom. That picture is on my phone, and it will be on my phone until the phone dies or I do, whichever comes first.

Sunday at church, the men's choir sang "Leaning on the Everlasting Arms," and I leaned into my bass notes the way I lean on the things that hold me up — Rosetta, the smoker, the mail route, the church, the family. Everything leans on something. The trick is knowing what you're leaning on and being grateful for it.

DeAndre got his smoked turkey legs that Saturday, and I got that picture on my phone that I’ll carry until the phone dies or I do — but not every weekend has three and a half hours and a full hickory smoke in it, and Tyrone doesn’t always want to wait. On the nights I bring food to Raleigh without the smoker, this baked manicotti with turkey sausage is what I reach for: it’s generous enough to feel like an occasion, it uses turkey so the protein stays familiar, and it comes out of the oven smelling like the kind of meal that makes a bachelor’s house feel full again. We feel deeply and express poorly and cook to fill the gap — and this dish fills it just fine.

Prep Time: 25 minutes | Cook Time: 50 minutes | Total Time: 1 hour 15 minutes | Servings: 6

Ingredients

12 manicotti shells
1 lb Italian turkey sausage, casings removed
1 medium yellow onion, finely diced
3 cloves garlic, minced
15 oz whole-milk ricotta cheese
1 large egg
2 cups shredded mozzarella cheese, divided
1/2 cup grated Parmesan cheese, divided
2 tablespoons fresh flat-leaf parsley, chopped
1/2 teaspoon dried oregano
1/4 teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes
Salt and black pepper to taste
24 oz marinara sauce (store-bought or homemade)
1 tablespoon olive oil

Instructions

Cook the pasta. Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. Cook manicotti shells 2 minutes less than package directions so they remain slightly firm. Drain, rinse with cool water, and lay in a single layer on a lightly oiled baking sheet to prevent sticking.
Brown the sausage. Heat olive oil in a large skillet over medium-high heat. Add turkey sausage and cook, breaking it apart with a wooden spoon, until browned and cooked through, about 7 to 8 minutes. Transfer to a paper-towel-lined plate and drain excess fat, leaving about 1 teaspoon in the pan.
Soften the aromatics. Return the skillet to medium heat. Add onion and cook until softened and translucent, about 4 minutes. Add garlic and cook 1 minute more until fragrant. Remove from heat and let cool for 5 minutes.
Make the filling. In a large bowl, combine ricotta, egg, 1 1/4 cups mozzarella, 1/4 cup Parmesan, parsley, oregano, and red pepper flakes. Stir in the cooled sausage and onion mixture. Season with salt and pepper and mix until evenly combined.
Assemble the dish. Preheat oven to 375°F. Spread 1 cup of marinara sauce evenly across the bottom of a 9x13-inch baking dish. Using a small spoon or a piping bag, carefully fill each manicotti shell with the turkey-ricotta mixture and arrange them in a single layer over the sauce.
Top and bake. Spoon the remaining marinara sauce over the filled shells, covering them completely. Sprinkle with the remaining 3/4 cup mozzarella and 1/4 cup Parmesan. Cover the dish tightly with aluminum foil and bake for 30 minutes.
Finish uncovered. Remove the foil and continue baking for 15 to 20 minutes, until the cheese is bubbly and beginning to brown at the edges. Remove from oven and let rest 10 minutes before serving.

Nutrition (per serving)

Baked Manicotti with Turkey Sausage — When the Smoker Rests, the Oven Steps Up