Two days after Preppy and I moved into our house last year, hooligans broke in, trashed the place, and made off with a good portion of our electronics. Welcome home. We were still a little shaken from the experience the following week, so I decided we needed an event on which to focus that would give us happy home memories as quickly as possible. So I announced we would be hosting an Old Fashioned Thanksgiving at the house.
My childhood Thanksgivings were well-intentioned events that never came together exactly as planned. There was the time two of my cousins locked themselves in the laundry room and fought like peacocks in a pillowcase until my Aunt Barbara went in and had a come to Jesus with ‘em.
My childhood Thanksgivings were well-intentioned events that never came together exactly as planned. There was the time two of my cousins locked themselves in the laundry room and fought like peacocks in a pillowcase until my Aunt Barbara went in and had a come to Jesus with ‘em.
And there was the year I came home from boarding school and got so stoned with my sister and cousin that we ate an entire pan of dressing, leaving the table a little bare the next day.
The prize for “Most Awkward Thanksgiving” went to the year we travelled to the somber home of my cousin Paula, a stern and utterly humorless woman who ironically owned a party supply store. In keeping with her profession, Paula operated under the belief that if you followed the instructions on any party theme kit, a good time would be had by all- so she broke out the deluxe paper pilgrim wall decorations and accordion-fold tabletop turkeys, handed out prepackaged favors to the kids, and instructed us to play quietly. It was raining that year, so we sat in the garage fiddling with noisemakers we weren’t allowed to put to use, while her older daughters witnessed to us on Jesus’s behalf, as they did at every family gathering.
Their house was an endless source of confusion and fascination for me. Paula’s family was undeniably devout- they would pray over their food until it was stone cold- but I’d never seen anyone made so seemingly miserable by their own religious beliefs. I often tried to picture Paula at work, proselytizing to anyone foolish enough to come in seeking paper streamers.
I really hope she sold balloons better than she sold Evangelicalism.
My Old Fashioned Thanksgiving would not fall victim to any of that nonsense. My guest list and menu would be carefully planned, and nobody would be allowed to get high or attempt to convert guests to their chosen religion. We would all be healed by the power of turkey and pumpkin pie, and our house would become a home at last.
At the time, my cousin Nelson still lived with us. Nelson is known for his meat- it’s what God put him on this Earth to do. If it had four legs and once roamed the earth, Nelson can braise it to perfection for all to enjoy. So the deal was cut: I would prepare breads and sides, and he’d handle the bird. Two days before Thanksgiving, Nelson came home with the largest turkey I’d ever seen. He dumped it in the kitchen sink in a cold water bath, where it remained until the night before Thanksgiving.
My Old Fashioned Thanksgiving would not fall victim to any of that nonsense. My guest list and menu would be carefully planned, and nobody would be allowed to get high or attempt to convert guests to their chosen religion. We would all be healed by the power of turkey and pumpkin pie, and our house would become a home at last.
At the time, my cousin Nelson still lived with us. Nelson is known for his meat- it’s what God put him on this Earth to do. If it had four legs and once roamed the earth, Nelson can braise it to perfection for all to enjoy. So the deal was cut: I would prepare breads and sides, and he’d handle the bird. Two days before Thanksgiving, Nelson came home with the largest turkey I’d ever seen. He dumped it in the kitchen sink in a cold water bath, where it remained until the night before Thanksgiving.
I kept waiting for step two, but it never happened.
“Nelson,” I said at last. “Thanksgiving’s tomorrow. Shouldn’t you, I don’t know, prep the bird in some way?”
“I got it,” he said, opening a beer. “I’m gonna get up at five and put it in the oven. It’s gonna be great.”
On Thanksgiving morning, I awoke at nine to that elephantine bird still sitting in my sink, and Nelson passed out in his room near an monumental tower of beer cans. All hope was not lost for my Old Fashioned Thanksgiving, however. I just rolled up my sleeves and schlepped the waterlogged 22-pound Butterball into a roasting pan.
It was still very, very frozen. I grew concerned. Guests would be arriving at noon. So I threw the bird into a trash bag and tossed it into the front seat of the car. The two of us drove to Kroger, where I purchased a pre-cooked turkey.
Now, what to do with the giant frozen bird sitting in my front seat wearing a seatbelt (it kept falling over)? I drove around to the back of Kroger, located a dumpster, and swung the bag with all my might, letting it fly.
But I’d forgotten to tie the bag closed.
The turkey, freed from its Hefty bag constraints, struck the side of the dumpster with a satisfying smack, landing in the parking lot. I ran over and grabbed it by the legs, swung again, and was successful in my second attempt. I went home, made the switch, and popped the bird in the oven. When all was said and done, everyone was very complimentary, even Nelson, who woke up in a panic around noon and was impressed with my work. Though he couldn’t figure out why the bird seemed to have lost about eight pounds during roasting. I explained that they pump turkeys full of water to increase the weight, and it all evaporates in the oven or leaks out during cooking.
“Nelson,” I said at last. “Thanksgiving’s tomorrow. Shouldn’t you, I don’t know, prep the bird in some way?”
“I got it,” he said, opening a beer. “I’m gonna get up at five and put it in the oven. It’s gonna be great.”
On Thanksgiving morning, I awoke at nine to that elephantine bird still sitting in my sink, and Nelson passed out in his room near an monumental tower of beer cans. All hope was not lost for my Old Fashioned Thanksgiving, however. I just rolled up my sleeves and schlepped the waterlogged 22-pound Butterball into a roasting pan.
It was still very, very frozen. I grew concerned. Guests would be arriving at noon. So I threw the bird into a trash bag and tossed it into the front seat of the car. The two of us drove to Kroger, where I purchased a pre-cooked turkey.
Now, what to do with the giant frozen bird sitting in my front seat wearing a seatbelt (it kept falling over)? I drove around to the back of Kroger, located a dumpster, and swung the bag with all my might, letting it fly.
But I’d forgotten to tie the bag closed.
The turkey, freed from its Hefty bag constraints, struck the side of the dumpster with a satisfying smack, landing in the parking lot. I ran over and grabbed it by the legs, swung again, and was successful in my second attempt. I went home, made the switch, and popped the bird in the oven. When all was said and done, everyone was very complimentary, even Nelson, who woke up in a panic around noon and was impressed with my work. Though he couldn’t figure out why the bird seemed to have lost about eight pounds during roasting. I explained that they pump turkeys full of water to increase the weight, and it all evaporates in the oven or leaks out during cooking.
That’s where gravy comes from. Everybody knows that.
I’ll be on the road in North Carolina for the holiday this year, breaking bread with new friends in a strange place, just like the pilgrims, without the buckle shoes or cholera. But when I am home for my next Old Fashioned Thanksgiving, I’m going straight to the pre-cooked bird, which involves a lot less work and panic, and seems to make everyone perfectly happy. I'm not very domestic, I’ll grant you. But I am creative in a pinch. And I suppose that’s something for which I am very thankful.
I’ll be on the road in North Carolina for the holiday this year, breaking bread with new friends in a strange place, just like the pilgrims, without the buckle shoes or cholera. But when I am home for my next Old Fashioned Thanksgiving, I’m going straight to the pre-cooked bird, which involves a lot less work and panic, and seems to make everyone perfectly happy. I'm not very domestic, I’ll grant you. But I am creative in a pinch. And I suppose that’s something for which I am very thankful.
