Twig and Berries

As is the tradition in my family, the member who just recently moved into a new place is required to host the next family holiday gathering. I actually like the pressure: it's just the motivation I need to actually get pictures hung, walls painted, and baseboards swept. (Really, if the dust wants to settle there, I see no reason to disturb it.) Plus, it's nice to have extended family over. Once a year. (I'm way too lazy for more than an annual event. Cleaning involves way too much cardio.)

Since I moved into Chateau Suano in mid-July, the first holiday to roll around is Thanksgiving. That is perfectly fine with me: fall is my favorite season and Thanksgiving is actually my favorite holiday. No pressure to come up with Christmas presents for relatives with undecipherable tastes, no church service to wedge in that morning or the night before. Just a good old-fashioned American holiday with distant, glossed-over connections to crimes against an entire race of indigenous people. But, despite those contradictions of ideals, I love Thanksgiving. Well, the cartoon version. I fall for the kitsch of the holiday every year.

Exhibit A:

I make my mom spend two hours Wednesday night cutting out a flock of hand turkeys, decorating each one for a specific family member and nestling something the person was grateful for under its wing. Which leads to a very insightful conversation between us about whether my sister's item of thanks (she's expecting her first kid in spring) should be drawn as an egg (me) or a miniature turkey (mom). My mom wins, despite my multiple attempts to point out that an egg HAS a miniature turkey inside it. I'm still not sure if my mom knows where baby turkeys come from.

Get the flock out of here!

Exhibit B:

Dad, upon returning from a bag-of-ice run: "Hey, I was walking into UDF and I saw a guy in a hat loading-"

Me, completely serious: "A pilgrim hat?! Like with a buckle?"

Dad, staring at me with a mixture of bewilderment and pity: "Um, no. Just a regular baseball hat."


The one downside to Thanksgiving: while other holidays can have a bounty of different food options, Thanksgiving has just one item on the menu: turkey. An entire bird: bones, gizzards and all.

Tom: you can try but you can't hide. We have a date at eight.

We always call ours Tom the Turkey. Since I only recently developed the ability to touch raw chicken without shivering, the prospect of attacking an entire fowl is terrifying. Especially a bird with a name. Adding to the pressure is the fact that I will be hosting a dinner of thirteen, which includes one current and one former lineman. If the bird preparation run afoul  (I'm not above using that joke), I don't think a back-up plan of Skillet Sensations and Pop-Tarts will work. And if you think I'm exaggerating (I'm not above that either), here's photographic evidence of who I'm going to have to feed:

That's not some Peter Jacksonian magic. He literally has to look DOWN to see the top of my fridge.

So, very graciously, my parents volunteer to come down the night before and help me with Operation Feast 2011.

Thanksgiving Day. 0800 hours. It is just Tom versus my mom and me. Tom, defrosted and sitting in the sink, has assumed the position. I have my Turkey socks up and my game face on.



Suited Up. Turkeybowl 2011 has begun.

I have steeled myself to remove the giblets myself. We never use them in the stuffing or gravy anyway. All I have to do is reach in and pull out the bag of innards and immediately throw them into the trash. I even see the corner of the organ sack-o-gold peeking out. I pinch the tiny tab of plastic between my fingers, put the trash can at the ready, and fling poor Tom's guts into the garbage.

Boom! Tom, you just got served! Let's drop this motherfowler into a pan, sling it into the oven, and kick back for the next 2 1/2 to 3 hours.

Little do I know, the giblets are just the start of the crimes against aviary I am about to witness. Seriously, someone should have told me how far we would have to violate this bird. Now I understand why so many mothers spend the holidays crying into their wine glasses.



I'm sure there are other, more culinary ways to describe what we do to Tom, but here's my crude attempt:

• Remove innards.
• Also remove neck, which is conveniently packed inside his body cavity. (I immediately think of how I flip socks together when folding them. I'll never look at laundry day the same way again.)
• Hang him upside-down and rightside-up, making sure the water running through his dead carcass is clear.
• Pluck any last remaining feather quills off of him. (Very poor shaving job, he should invest in one of those Venus Divine razors, they have three blades for a silky smooth finish. Well, should have. Too late now.)
• Castrate him. It might have been something else but, given its location, I can only assume what we are cutting off is at least partially twig-and-berries. I immediately text my cousin, who is also preparing her first full turkey feast. Her response: "No directions say to do that! Why would they leave that part out??"
• Break his shoulders so his wings prop up behind his would-be head. It gives him the appearance of working it for a Sports Illustrated Swimsuit catalog.
• Shove a celery stick up his ass. On second thought, add an onion as well for good measure.
• Rub oil on his chest, which is also disturbingly connected to a bikini photo shoot.

I would have taken a picture, but I figured the images might come back to haunt me if I ever decide to run for political office or Petland sales rep. Although, to be honest, most of the pictures wouldn't be incriminating. They would just show me jumping from foot to foot, hands wringing from the ickiness while my mom patiently works on the bird, all the while smiling in amusement at my lack of kitchen street smarts.

Tom, catching a few rays before his close-up.

The rest of the feast preparation goes off without a hitch. The stuffing bubbles happily in the crock pot. The mashed potatoes fluff up into creamy peaks. Even Tom is ready to go ahead of schedule, so there is plenty of time to cut up the meat. I again opt to act as photographer instead of carver, although I do help to clean some scraps off the bones. I sneak a taste, prying a morsel of meat right off of Tom's sternum. It tastes good. While I'm chewing I think, hmmm. I bet this is what it feels like to be Republican. Like the way sipping Snowville Creamery organic nonhomogenized whole milk makes me feel Democratic. (Equal Time Rule satisfied.)

Geneva Conventions Be Damned

Three hours later, everyone has pigged out on three courses: appetizers, the feast, and dessert. Everyone  has ate, drank, and been sarcastically merry. And, as is our own family tradition, pillows come out, floor areas are claimed, and the siestas begin.

How the mighty have fallen.

 

By seven, leftovers are stowed away, hugs are given, and centerpieces (ironically, vases filled with twigs and berries) are tossed. A quiet sense of peace drifts back into my home. Another day of lovely memories to razz each other about at the next holiday: the chocolate pie none of us could take down, the copious amounts of cheese left over, the barbs exchanged between cousin and uncle. All wonderful things to  remember and bring up later. Come to think of it, there was one thing my mom told me to not forget or I would regret it. Hmm. What was it? Something about the oven? The crockpot?

Wait, what's that smell ... the turkey bones! Put them in the garbage can outside!

And, in one last act of insult, I unceremoniously dump Tom's remains into the trash, wishbone and all. No wish would be worth facing that assault on the senses.

Happy Thanksgiving To All, And To All A Good Night!

Turkey Day 2011