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Illustration by Mary Kirkpatrick
Don’t get me wrong. I love turkey meat – turkey pot pies, turkey stew, turkey stuffing, turkey sandwiches, turkey soup. I just never want to wrestle a bird into the oven, ever again. The turkey, as someone said to me, is not just a meal. It is a symbol that carries all sorts of expectations: it is the centrepiece of a perfect family gathering, it is nourishment for the family, and it conjures up memories of other holidays.
It is food for the soul and the people who sit at the table.
Well, my soul is now happy to appreciate someone else’s turkey.
When our four children were quite young, friends who lived in another town invited us for lunch on Christmas Day. It was a wonderful spread of smoked salmon, cheeses, cold meats and bread and cookies and chocolates and wine and … well, you get the picture. It wasn’t until our drive home, that I remembered that I had neglected to get the turkey in the oven to be ready for our evening meal.
So, I nuked it. For about half an hour. Then I shoved it in the oven, and miracle of miracles, the meal was ready for 5:30. Unfortunately, no one was hungry and not much of a dent was made in the turkey. And I was a basket case, so after dinner I flopped on the living room couch, just staring at the ceiling. The children knew enough to give me a wide berth. My mother, however, did not. She and my husband cleaned up the kitchen, and at one point she appeared beside me and said: “You know, if you can’t be nice to be with, you should go to your room.” I did.
The storm that almost wiped out Christmas taught me a lot about people
One year, we were to spend Thanksgiving on an island in Ontario’s Stony Lake. There were six people to pack for, and eight people to feed. My mother and my husband’s mother joined us for the holiday in that beautiful place. There were a lot of details for spending three nights and days away. Did I mention the cottage was on an island? Somewhere on the 401 highway, I was gleefully crowing to my passengers that I had remembered EVERY detail, down to a little packet of spices for the pumpkin pie we would bake the next day. Except – I had not remembered to bring the turkey. Yup. No turkey. My husband Tim headed out in the boat the next day and found a B-Grade turkey lacking wings in a local supermarket. My mother and my mother-in-law collapsed in giggles for years to come when they recalled the memory.
Then, there was a Yuletide when at the last minute, four extra people accepted our invitation to dinner on Christmas Eve. We had ordered a fresh turkey from our favourite Toronto butcher. But with no place to park, my husband circled the block while I went in to pay for it.
I asked if they could provide me with a bigger bird to accommodate our extra guests. Sure! I paid the rather large bill, and was preparing to lug it to the car, when I thought to ask its size. Twenty-five pounds. Twenty five pounds! Time was of the essence with Tim circling the block, so I decided I would take it and figure it out later. Then I spent a rather sleepless night wondering if the bird would fit in our fairly small oven. It did, with a full inch of space between it and the walls of the oven. By this point, I had reached a “whatever” mindset, even though one of our guests was a bit of a gourmet cook. When he took his first bite and declared it quite the best turkey he had ever had, I exhaled with relief.
Not too many years passed before I became a convert to the frozen, prestuffed turkey. I never looked back.
When playing Santa, I have one fleeting moment to convey the right message to children
That is, until one Thanksgiving. I decided I wanted to support the butcher at our local Stratford market. I ordered a 12-pound turkey. As the day progressed, I was wonderfully in control. I had a to-do list for completing the meal that left me time to sit and read. I should have known – pride goeth before a fall. And it did. The oven failed. Then, after repeatedly turning the oven off, and then turning it on so that the one working element could bring it up to heat, my meat thermometer told me the turkey was definitely not safely cooked.
We and our guest ate nuked (thank the lord for the microwave) frozen cabbage rolls instead of turkey. I continued to cook the bird but began to wonder if my meat thermometer was also not working, so I stuck a candy thermometer in the thigh of the turkey. It was definitely cooked … the internal temperature was 40 degrees higher than the recommended temperature.
My husband carved the dry bird at 9:30 that night. The next day, after the oven was fixed, I made six turkey pot pies, a vat of turkey soup and we ate turkey sandwiches for lunch for several days.
And I will never cook a turkey again.
Ever.
Judy Maddren lives in Stratford, Ont.
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