Debi Talks Turkey

A Thanksgiving repeat (burp!) from 2013. Hey, Rankin-Bass does it every damn year-why can't we?

Debi Talks Turkey

by Aunt Shecky

All Rights Reserved

I can’t believe it’s Thanksgiving time already! Our family kicks off the season by gathering round the toasty TV to watch the President of the United States pardon the turkey. That’s real heartwarming, but the media never follow up on the story. Chances are that within a day or two of release, the bird pulls another caper. Bam! Right back into the slammer.

At this generous time of year another proud family tradition is helping the less fortunate. So when late November rolls around, we all climb aboard the SUV and head down to the East Hogwash Community Food Pantry to donate a can of lima beans that’s only a month or two past the expiration date. It’s inspirational to know that we Snotenlockers step up and do our part to eliminate world hunger.

I wish I could say that the rest of the holiday is always a pleasant experience for me. Last year was a complete disaster. On the day before Thanksgiving, the triplets–-Trip, Trap, and Trick–-threw another famous tantrum. Each one wanted to have his very own drumstick. So Brad and I frantically searched all over town for a three-legged turkey.

Milwaukee, my teenage daughter from a previous relationship, also tried our patience by demanding a totally separate, vegan meal on Thanksgiving. Just to shut her up, I was ready to cave until my neighbor, Mindy Schermerhorn, said that she saw Milwaukee with a bunch of her friends scarfing down enormous Big Macs in the Rentacenter parking lot.

My husband always invites his mom over. She never passes up an opportunity to criticize my cooking. But I never try to get even. Last year when I was carving the turkey, my mother-in-law said she wanted the “part that goes over the fence last.” I didn’t say a word, but couldn’t help laughing when Trap said, “You are what you eat, Grandma!” As a result of that casual remark, I still have scars.

Brad was the absolute worst. It took two hours to wrap up and put away tons of leftovers, not to mention scrubbing more pots and pans than in the Mess Hall of the 10th Mountain Division. Then just as I finished washing and drying the last dish, Brad came out into the kitchen and ordered me to make him a turkey sandwich.

So this year I put my foot down. I told Brad “Either we go to a nice restaurant on Thanksgiving or you do the cooking.”

“Great!” He reacted with the same enthusiasm he showed when the Cost Cutter had a buy one, get one free sale on Schlitz. “Ya know, they say men are the best chefs. I’ll duck right out and buy a deep fryer right now!”

“No! You’re not deep-frying a turkey in the driveway. You’ll burn down the whole freakin’ neighborhood.”

“Then I’ll get a smoker–“

“No way.”

“What if the turkey doesn’t inhale? “ He furrowed his brow and stroked his chin. “I know! Maybe I’ll roast a turducken.”

“Not at eight ninety-nine a pound, you won’t,” I said. “You’re gonna roast a traditional turkey with all the trimmings or you will pick up the phone and make reservations at Chez Cher right now.”

When Thanksgiving Day arrived this year, I thought I’d get the triplets involved in some quiet activities so they wouldn’t distract their Dad from his crucial culinary tasks. The plan was to have each of them draw a turkey by tracing their little hands on a piece of paper. Their palm part could be the turkey’s round body ,the thumb part could be the bird's head,and the outline of their fingers could be the feathers. After a long hunt, I found the crayons, and it only took about forty-five minutes to get the boys to sit down. The hard part was wrenching little hands away from little throats.

It was almost half-past one, and Brad was watching a game on TV from his favorite chair, the one named after him (“Lazy Boy.”) As far as I could tell, he hadn’t begun preparing the turkey, which looked like a bleached football somebody had kicked into the kitchen sink.

“Uh, Brad–forgive me for asking, but what time do you plan to start cooking?”

“Huh? Oh, around half-time, I think.”

“But it’s still frozen!”

“Don’t worry, Deb–- got it covered. I’ll just wrap a couple of girlie magazines around it, and it’ll be melted before you can say ‘Pamela Anderson.’ “

Five hours later when I peeked into the oven, I had more ‘mis-‘ than ‘thanks-‘ givings. The turkey was not done. As a matter of fact, it hadn’t even really begun to roast.

“This thing isn’t cooking right, Brad. Are you sure you know what you’re doing? Maybe you should call the Butterball Hot Line.”

“I already did,” he explained. “But the operator got mad and hung up on me.”

“You didn’t swear at her or anything, did you?”

“Nah. All I did was ask her what she was wearing.”

At that point, I decided to try to salvage the day. When I rechecked the stove, I was horrified. “Brad, you idiot! You never turned on the oven!”

Finally, the turkey became edible round midnight. The boys were so confused that they kept looking at the TV screen. They were waiting for the ball to drop down in Times Square. Naturally, the clean-up chores traditionally fell into my lap, and when I joined the family in the living room they were all out like lights. Milwaukee was stacking z’s, the kids deep in Dreamland, and sprawled on the couch was my mother-in-law, with her big fat mouth temporarily shut, though Brad’s pie-hole was wider than the Grand Canyon, and his feet dangled off the edge of the footrest on his namesake chair, opened all the way.

They had all fallen asleep thanks to a chemical active after consuming a large meal. It’s called tryptophan. They ought to bottle that stuff–- it’s better than Ambien. It’ll knock you out quicker than C-Span.