The Thanksgiving Saga (Panic!)
by Bonni Brodnick
Why am I so panicked about hosting Thanksgiving at my house? Because one year, I didn't put the bird in the oven long enough. It was after 6:00 pm, and the turkey still wasn't finished. Then, one of our guests inhaled a giblet, and we had to rush to the ER.
Plus, having one food as the frikkin' focal point is too stressful. All eyes are on the turkey. My other worry is a once-a-year, self-induced culinary panic about whether it will be judged succulent, dry, well-glazed, or burnt.
Thus, my proclamation: I promise never to cook turkey again. (Share my angst. Read on.)
. . .
I brined the turkey the night before. When I took it out of the refrigerator on Thanksgiving morning, the salty/sweet brine had run over to one side of the plastic bag, covering only HALF of the turkey. So, I squished the liquid around and prayed this would work as a last-minute fix-it.
Until that is, my 20-something son strolled into the kitchen and asked, "Mom, should the turkey be in the oven by now?" I acknowledged his wisdom and bled the brine from the bag.
What was left was a bird with butterball-smooth skin on one side only. I turned the oven up to 375 degrees, rinsed off the bird, gave it a pat-pat, herbed and spiced it, stuck a peeled apple into the cavity, placed it in the oven, and slammed the door.
"Respect me and I will respect you," I said as I gaped at the turkey through the oven door window.
"How long will it take?" my husband asked as he entered the kitchen from reading by the fire.
"A few hours," I said. Then, I suddenly remembered that I hadn't put the turkey on the roasting rack.
"Can you help me with something?" I asked. "If I lift the turkey, will you help me put it on this thing?"
I steadied the rack, and my husband hoisted the 15 pounds of raw meat. (He was such a help when he wasn't reading. By the fire.)
"Great! We're all set!!!" (I added a few extra exclamation points to cover up my mounting anxiety.
"Mom, you should close the oven. Every time you open it, it loses heat," called my 20-something daughter from the living room. (When did my college kids get so smart?)
That's when we lost another half-hour from the cooking time. The oven temperature dipped to a chilling 300.
Then, I saw, poking out from behind the oysters, a bag of fresh savory herbs that I specifically bought to season the turkey.
Once again, the turkey came out of the oven. I removed the apple from the cavity and threw in the bouquet of herbs.
The telephone rang, and it was my sister, a culinary whiz known for her grace in the kitchen. She was calling from New Jersey.
"How's it going? Do you have the bird in the oven yet?"
"I hate cooking turkey," I whispered into the phone. "This is my last time. I swear! It's too much pressure."
"Oh, come on, Bonni. All you have to do is put it in the oven and wait for the plastic thing to pop up."
Then I remembered that I also hadn't wrapped the bird in cheesecloth, a technique she taught me to help keep the turkey moist.
"There's too much attention on this one single thing." I was certain my Green Beans Almondine would not be judged in the same way as my turkey.
"I've got a ton to do," I said. "Can we chat later?"
I imagined my sister already dressed in her velvet hostess skirt, and here I was, sweaty and overheated in a black L.L.Bean polar fleece that was covered in drips of everything I was making on the Thanksgiving dinner menu.
"How about some Vivaldi?" I shouted calmly (is that an oxymoron?) to my husband, who was on chapter 634 as he continued reading. (By the fire.)
I was counting on the "Four Seasons" to mask my opening the oven door, yet again, so that I could pull out the turkey and wrap it in cheesecloth. If anyone walked into the kitchen, I could always say, "I'm just giving the turkey a little basting."
I had planned for a 4 o'clock sitting. By 6 o'clock, the turkey was barely cooked. Its white pallor mocked me.
. . .
My favorite comments of the next few hours were:
"When will the turkey be ready?"
"I thought we were going to eat early so that we didn't feel too full later?"
"Did the thing pop up yet?"
Are you joking???
"It's not quite ready. I promise it will be though," I assured everyone.
"Well, did you test the temperature in the oven?" My son was back.
I hastily grabbed what looked like a meat thermometer from the drawer next to the stove. I stuck it in the bird and watched the temperature rise.
"See? It's almost done," I said.
"Mom, that's not a meat thermometer," he said. "It's a wine thermometer and it stops at 72 degrees!"
I grabbed my eyeglasses and watched the dial soar from "sparkling wine" to "dry wine." It blew past "Beaujolais," "Chianti," and "Port."
Truth be told, I broke the wine thermometer by using it as a turkey thermometer.
"Let's just not look at the turkey for a few hours," I begged my son as I slammed the oven door for the fifth time.
The red plastic gadget finally popped up. "Dinnertime!" was announced, and I proudly placed the perfectly cooked turkey on the table. The bird glowed, and I enjoyed the oohs and ahhs. We all held hands and shared what we were most thankful for.
There was familial conviviality ... until, mid-laugh, someone inhaled a tiny piece of giblet in the stuffing and had to go to the emergency room. (I kid you not.)
Through the drama of it all, there's nothing like family and taking a moment of pause to count our many blessings.
Last year, I also felt deeply grateful knowing it was the last time I would have to cook turkey.
Until this Thanksgiving. (Can somebody tell me why I raised my hand to host again?)
