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THE TERRIBLE TURKEY TRAUMA |
My first husband's Dad was a chef who had owned restaurants, then went into institutional catering, as well as events catering. I always felt a bit intimidated when we'd have them for dinner since I never thought anything I made was as good as it should be as well as not being up to the par of his productions.
Our second Thanksgiving, I don't know what prompted this momentary colossal lapse in judgment, but I invited all of his family for dinner at our apartment. Yes, this same person who boiled lasagna noodles one at a time to the point of exhaustion.
Our second Thanksgiving, I don't know what prompted this momentary colossal lapse in judgment, but I invited all of his family for dinner at our apartment. Yes, this same person who boiled lasagna noodles one at a time to the point of exhaustion.
Not the first time I said to myself, "What was I thinking?"
Fortunately, I had several good cookbooks that were gifted to me at bridal showers, so I immediately consulted several to plan the menu. Of primary importance was how to cook the turkey without it being so dry it would explode a la "Christmas Vacation" (a movie which hadn't been made yet, but you get the idea.)
I walked to the grocery store (remember, we only had one car, and that was my husband's), bought pretty much everything I thought I would need, trekked back to the apartment and proceeded to figure out the mathematical equation for how many pounds, how many minutes per pound, what temperature.
Fortunately, I had several good cookbooks that were gifted to me at bridal showers, so I immediately consulted several to plan the menu. Of primary importance was how to cook the turkey without it being so dry it would explode a la "Christmas Vacation" (a movie which hadn't been made yet, but you get the idea.)
I walked to the grocery store (remember, we only had one car, and that was my husband's), bought pretty much everything I thought I would need, trekked back to the apartment and proceeded to figure out the mathematical equation for how many pounds, how many minutes per pound, what temperature.
Now, I had not taken a math class since junior year in high school, and now I was a college graduate.
I. Had. No. Clue. As to how to calculate this.
Remember, this was 1971, and the only computer was the one on my campus, which was housed in an enormous classroom.
Certainly not the little bitty handhelds that we have now. Even if I could access it, I wouldn't have known what to do with it since it used punch cards, and only the people in honors math were allowed even to go in there.
I. Had. No. Clue. As to how to calculate this.
Remember, this was 1971, and the only computer was the one on my campus, which was housed in an enormous classroom.
Certainly not the little bitty handhelds that we have now. Even if I could access it, I wouldn't have known what to do with it since it used punch cards, and only the people in honors math were allowed even to go in there.
So the day before Thanksgiving I set about prepping everything:
- Shrimp Cocktail (easy enough to make)
- Cheese and crackers (also hard to screw up)
- Pasta ready to go (we are Italian, and it is a law that you must have pasta on any holiday)
- Sweet potatoes with marshmallows (I ate two marshmallows for every one I put on top)
- Mom's stuffing (actually one of the good things she made!)
- Broccoli (I didn't know how to cook asparagus, although it seemed that would have been a better choice…and the broccoli was frozen, so there were directions)
- Scalloped potatoes (from a box)
- Gravy (from a can)
- Pumpkin pie (it's not Thanksgiving without it! Frozen crust!)
- Cherry pie (my husband's favorite)
I carefully read the directions on the packaging, which stated that after you removed the bag of gizzards in the cavity, you should thoroughly rinse it out with a mixture of salt and water.
I set about finding the "goody bag." I reached way into the inside of the bird (not terribly happy about doing that), felt around…nothing. I shook it a little to see if it might fall loose if it was stuck somewhere.
(There's a visual: me shaking a turkey.) Again, nothing.
Stuck my hand in up to my elbow (another visual. )
The bag was nowhere to be found.
I gave up, deciding that I had been cheated of my bag of gizzards and should complain to the grocery store and ask for partial credit on the price of the turkey.
The bag was nowhere to be found.
I gave up, deciding that I had been cheated of my bag of gizzards and should complain to the grocery store and ask for partial credit on the price of the turkey.
The next day through prayer to St. Lawrence, the patron saint of cooks, and a lot of luck, I managed to get everything cooked and out on the table at the same time. Even my turkey looked like it was straight off the cover of Good Housekeeping.
Since the family patriarch was at the head of the table, not to mention he had significantly more experience in carving, we asked him to do the honors. My father-in-law stood up, brandishing the knife and fork, and proceeded to remove the legs, then the wings, and started on the breasts.
Since the family patriarch was at the head of the table, not to mention he had significantly more experience in carving, we asked him to do the honors. My father-in-law stood up, brandishing the knife and fork, and proceeded to remove the legs, then the wings, and started on the breasts.
To this day, I'm not sure exactly how it happened, but as he was slicing, this smoldering bag of turkey "insides" fell out on to the plate. My father-in-law looked at me with horror on his face, since unbeknownst to me, cooking anything plastic inside any food item could poison people.
To the best of my knowledge, the only person who felt ill after that was me. I was sick to my stomach with embarrassment. Where in the h-e-double hockey sticks was the d#$ned thing?
'Tis a mystery, never to be solved.
As you may have guessed, it was a long time before I made a turkey again. We just always went to someone else's house for Thanksgiving, and I'd bring a side dish…like scalloped potatoes from a box.
To the best of my knowledge, the only person who felt ill after that was me. I was sick to my stomach with embarrassment. Where in the h-e-double hockey sticks was the d#$ned thing?
'Tis a mystery, never to be solved.
As you may have guessed, it was a long time before I made a turkey again. We just always went to someone else's house for Thanksgiving, and I'd bring a side dish…like scalloped potatoes from a box.