Turkey Tales

I am hosting the family Thanksgiving dinner again this year, so there is a really large turkey in my fridge.

I love turkey dinner, and I have had great success with them over the years; creamy mashed potatoes, steamed carrots, peas, rich gravy, my grandmother’s sage and onion stuffing, mince tarts and pumpkin pie. I’ve roasted many turkeys and gotten a little cocky about the whole thing.

The last time I made a turkey, my neighbour Jen popped over and asked if I had a meat thermometer she could borrow to test her own turkey’s progress. She promised to bring it right back. I assured her in my smug/humble I’m an awesome turkey roaster voice, that there was no rush, I never used it.

Let me state that I love hosting family dinners, but because my family lives in other cities, it’s usually a three day visit, not just a holiday meal. Getting ready for house guests often leaves me tired before they even arrive. I tell you this as partial explanation for what happened at that last turkey meal.

I was in the kitchen serving up the creamy potatoes, steaming carrots, etc… and my daughter was taking the plates to the dining room where my husband was carving and serving the turkey.

The last plate had left the kitchen and I turned my attention to filling a basket with warm buttery rolls. Then I sashayed into the dining room, roll basket in one hand, half empty glass of wine in the other and screamed.

My father was pouring gravy onto a piece of turkey that was baby pink and covered in ice crystals. Someone who had had more sleep and less wine would have calmly said “Oh dear,” and removed the plate. I dropped the rolls, screamed “No! Don’t eat that!” grabbed the frosty turkey in my fist, and with golden gravy oozing through my fingers, ran to the kitchen and pitched it in the sink.

There wasn’t a sound from the dining room until I burst out laughing and my terrorized family felt it was safe to take a breath. Some of the meat went into the microwave, some back into the oven. The meal was a little disjointed and not really great but we hobbled to the holiday dinner finish line. I still can’t explain my behavior any more than I can explain why my husband didn’t notice that the tender white breast he was carving was becoming turkey sushi as he got closer to the bone.

Mine isn’t the best turkey story in the family. That still belongs to my mom: Christmas dinner at least 35 years ago, the turkey tipped off the platter and bounced down the basement stairs. There are many versions of what happened next, some say we ate only vegetables that year, others claim the stuffing tumbled out of the falling turkey, while my mother insists it had already been removed to a serving bowl, others believe we gave the turkey a wipe over with paper towels and the meal went as planed, but with a little more laughter that normal.

Like a good fish tale it doesn’t matter where the truth lies. I’m sure when my fist-o-turkey story has had a few years to ripen it will include embellished details, like me tripping on a fallen roll and sliding into the cat.

Even though the goal is often a picture perfect holiday, perfection is rarely memorable. On the flip side, food poisoning is a little too memorable. So, sorry Jen, but I won’t be lending my meat thermometer this year.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Kim R.

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