Clever Magazine, Winter '09-10 "The Last Turkey " (www.clevermag.com)

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The Last Turkey

by Lina Rehal

I used to be the June Cleaver of our neighborhood. I picked the kids up after school, drove them to cheerleading and football practice, helped with homework, dropped overdue books off at the library and whipped together some pretty creative Halloween costumes on short notice and a low budget. I cooked and cleaned, scrubbed the floors, did the laundry and took care of pets. The hours were long, but the pay was rewarding.

I was considered a good cook. My family often feasted on homemade pasta and darn good meatballs. Things have changed. I might conjure up an occasional pot of spaghetti sauce now and then or a beef stew, but it has been many years since I’ve attempted a piecrust from scratch, or pumped out ten pies after a day of apple picking. Today, I have a sign in my kitchen that reads, “The Queen don’t cook.” You would be more apt to find me online in the computer room than in line at a supermarket. Except, that is, around Thanksgiving. It seems that once the apples and pumpkins come out and the leaves begin to fall, I revert back to June. My husband says this is the one and only day a year I cook. It is somewhat of an exaggeration on his part, but not much. It seems to be the one day that I actually like to cook. However, I always snap out of it by the first of December.

Several years ago, I was determined to keep things simple by not going overboard on the size of the turkey. There would only be six of us for dinner. My daughter was making dessert. This should be an easy one, I thought as I entered the supermarket.

After careful consideration, I selected a fresh, fourteen pound beauty of a bird and heaved it into a shopping cart. I hauled him around the store, filling my wagon with potatoes, butternut squash, bread for the stuffing and other necessary items. I thought about the wonderful aroma that fills the house (or in our case, condo) on Thanksgiving. When I got home, my husband carried in the groceries and helped me put the food away. I was happy that part was over.

On Thanksgiving morning, I woke up at 6 A.M. My estimated time for getting the bird into the oven was 9:30. Dinner would be at two. I made myself a cup of coffee and headed for the computer. How different this was from my years as a housewife in another life. It was nice not to have to battle with a frozen bird the day before, change the water every couple of hours and freeze my fingers to the bone. Instead, I enjoyed my morning coffee, checked email, surfed the Internet and made a few phone calls before heading to the kitchen.

The stuffing has always been my favorite part of the meal. I chopped up a small onion, set it aside and washed my hands. Next, I began breaking bread into big chunks and tossing them into a pan. They still love my stuffing, I thought, as I mixed in some salt, pepper and Bell’s Seasoning. Happy with myself for choosing a medium sized turkey this year, I pulled him out of the fridge and lowered him into the sink. I slit open the plastic covering. Soon it would be Thanksgiving. Or, so I thought.

An unpleasant odor quickly made its way to my nostrils. It couldn’t be the bird, could it? I washed my hands again and took another whiff. Something wasn’t right. I rinsed him in cold water. That didn’t help. The kitchen was beginning to smell like low tide. My husband shut off the vacuum cleaner and yelled to me from the living room. “Are you cooking eggs?”

The meal was doomed. If such a thing had happened to the Pilgrims, we might never have celebrated this holiday at all. The supermarkets were closed. Where would we ever find a turkey on the morning of Thanksgiving?

I called my daughter to let her know that our dinner was now out in the dumpster and that Dick went out in search of a new bird. “How big is that turkey breast you bought for sandwiches?” I asked.

“It’s seven and a half pounds,” she said. “I was just about to put it in the oven. He’ll never find a turkey now. I’ll bring it over.”

Fifteen minutes later, Gina showed up with the turkey breast. She informed me that the stench was out in the lobby. I ran for a can of vanilla room deodorizer. “What must the neighbors think?” I screeched.

Gina sprayed the hallway, the living room and the dining room. I scrubbed the counters with Orange Power 409. Gagging on the vanilla/orange scent, we opened the sliders and let in some cold air. She set the table while I cut up the squash.

Just as I started to sauté my onions, the door flew open. Dick walked in with a turkey in his arms. We couldn’t believe it.

“You found one?” I said, astonished. “Where?”

“Steve’s Market,” he said. “I had to drive all the way to Salem. It was the last turkey. The good news is he has a pop-up timer.”

“Good news? What’s the bad news?” I asked.

“It was the last turkey,” he repeated.

“So, what’s wrong with him?” we both asked.

“He’s twenty-five pounds,” he said. “But, he was the last one.”

Now we had over thirty-two pounds of raw bird in front of us. I wondered if we’d be able to eat before Saturday. Thankful that we had a turkey, I decided it was best to get him into the oven and worry about timing later.

Gina took her turkey breast home and I went about the business of dinner. My big bird hit the rack at 10:33 A.M. I showered, got dressed, picked up the living room, peeled and cut the potatoes and finished setting the table. It was beginning to smell like Thanksgiving.

The timer popped out a little after 4:30. I jumped up and down and clapped my hands. Dick mashed the potatoes and squash while I made the gravy. We sat down to eat a few hours later than planned, but the meal was excellent. It’s not easy being second place, but turkey number two turned out just fine.

I will never hear the end of that near disaster. My mother told me I shouldn’t offer to cook for Christmas. My brother and his wife were hosting Christmas Eve at their home that year. When I asked what I could bring, my brother simply replied, “Not the turkey.”