TOPHER PAYNE
| 11.26.2008
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.
I decided we needed an event that would give us happy home memories as quickly as possible. So I announced that 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 cousins locked themselves in the laundry room and fought like peacocks in a pillowcase. There was the year I came home from boarding school and got so stoned with my sister 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 traveled to the somber home of my cousin Paula, a stern and utterly humorless woman who ironically owned a party supply store. Paula operated under the belief that if you followed the instructions on any party theme kit, a good time would be had by all . 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, so we sat in the garage fiddling with noisemakers we weren’t allowed to use, while cousins witnessed on Jesus’ behalf.
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.
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.
So the deal was cut: I would prepare breads and sides, and he’d handle the bird. Nelson came home with the largest turkey I’d ever seen.
“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 another 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 a monumental tower of beer cans.
But all hope was not lost for my Old Fashioned Thanksgiving. I rolled up my sleeves and 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.
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 CONSTRAINTS, struck the dumpster and smacked to the ground. I grabbed it by the legs, swung again, and was successful in my second attempt.
I went home and made the switch. When all was said and done, everyone was very complimentary, even Nelson, who woke up in a panic 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, and it leaks out during cooking. That’s where gravy comes from. Everybody knows that.
For my next Thanksgiving, I’m going straight to the pre-cooked bird, which is a lot less work and seems to make everyone perfectly happy.
I'm not very domestic, but I am creative in a pinch. And I suppose that’s something for which to be very thankful.
|
