It was years ago. The cold gray light of a late November dawn was just beginning to seep through my bedroom window when the alarm jolted me awake. 6 AM – time to roll out of bed and get that huge turkey in the oven. I shivered as my feet touched the icy floor, bundled up in my robe, and headed for the kitchen, careful not to wake my husband. Why should two of us have to suffer? I’d crawl back into bed a little later with steaming cappuccinos, but for now, I was on a mission. The Bird was waiting.
The kitchen table groaned with the weight of my industry from the day before – fruity pies, yams glazed golden, crusty rolls, stuffing waiting to be stuffed. Memories of my Uncle Jim popped up – “I hate stuffing. I don’t understand why the bird had to eat it in the first place”.
I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, stretched, and peeked out the window to access the day. Black oak branches laced across a pearly blue gray sky. Here and there a brave little pine tree added a note of deepest green. The forest floor was alive with shiny russet leaves, soon to be covered by the snow. Not bad. But the mute cry of the waiting turkey broke into my autumn reverie. “Cook me!” There’s nothing worse than semi-pink turkey on Thanksgiving Day. I was on a mission. It all depended on me.
I lifted Old Tom out of the fridge and braced myself for the worst. I knew, I just knew, that his giblets would still be frozen. I eased my hand into his innermost depths and began to grope for those elusive giblets. Ah, there they were, those slippery little devils. A few of my guests would expect giblet gravy, a preference I would never understand. But it wasn’t about me, was it? By now I was up to my elbow, feeling the frostbite settling in my fingers. “How much more intimate can one creature be with another?” I wondered. This was the moment of truth, the moment in which my devotion to my family found its fullest expression. Greater love hath no man (or woman) than to bury one’s arm into a turkey’s behind at the crack of dawn on Thanksgiving morning.
Out they came. Feeling somewhat like a midwife after delivery, I wrestled Tom into the pan, stuffed him, shoved him into the oven and made those cappuccinos. It would be worth it all when my family settled in around the table.
Happy Thanksgiving to all of my friends, however you celebrate! No two years are ever the same. We have so many reasons to give thanks, in the best and worst of times.
