Turkey

I stand at the periphery of my grandmother's kitchen, not wanting seem like a backseat driver in here. I figure egos must be a little tender this time of year among chefs, especially ones that have seen as many thanksgivings as my grandmother's and father's. They are tipped over at the waist, observing the bird. As my father bastes, Grammy inserts the thermometer.

"Is this where it goes?"
"Right in the thickest part of the thigh."
"Yeah, that's what I mean. Is this the thickest part of the thigh?"

Huh? I can hardly believe my ears. I had assumed roasters as seasoned as these two must use internal timers, or a delicate tinge in the wafting odors, or shear inexplicable intuition to know when the turkey reached its most succulent and edible state. When it was 'done'. Now here they are trusting some inanimate piece of chemistry equipment? And what's worse! They don't appear to know how to opperate it!

"Hmm, let's look at the picture again."

They have two thermometers in action, evidently they are prepared for faulty readings.

"Let's put one in the breast and one in the thigh."
"I think this one is broken, the breast is less than 140 degrees."
"Mine says 170."
"Well let's switch 'em."

I don't believe this. It's Abbott and Costello in here.

"Well I dunno Grammy, it sure doesn't seem like it's hot enough."
"What do we do?"

What do we do?! I can't help but pipe up. Maybe they just need a little confidence.

"Say, you guys have probably cooked dozens of these babies, right?"
"Well I guess so."
"Sure."
"And this can't be the first time that you've had to measure the temperature, right?"
"Well, no."
"So what did you do last time the turkey wasn't done?"
...
"You know, I don't remember."

Evidently this tradition happens infrequently enough (annually!) that there is time to revert back to amateur-levels of knowledge on the subject of poultry. Who knew. I find myself suddenly worried about other parts of tonight's meal.

"Who's making the cranberry sauce?" I ask, as politely as I can. I'm still treading lightly here, not confident enough to say 'Move over and let me handle this'. I wouldn't want to offend anyone in charge of rationing.

"Annie."
"And she's made it before?" I fear I may have let slip a little bit of nervousness.
"Oh, of course," Grammy responds. I figure I should get out of here before I really do say the wrong thing.
"Well I'll go see if she needs any help."

Annie lives just down the street. I walk the few blocks, and on the way am convinced I can smell burning cranberries. Panic takes hold of me, but a second later I realize I have no idea what a burnt cranberry smells like. I must be tense. 'Get a hold of yourself, Henry.' And by the time I get to Annie's I've managed to restore hope.

"Well hello!"
"Hi Aunt Annie! How's the cranberry sauce coming?"
"Oh, pretty well I guess, but it might be a little runny this year."

Egad! Runny cranberry sauce?! I follow the sound of her voice into the kitchen where I find her looking forlornly into a large pot, stiring slowly, as steam wafts up past her face. I put on a shaky smile and approach.

"Oh, uh, I'm sure it'll be fine." It better be!
"Yeah, I've tasted it, and it's pretty palatable,"--palatable?! This is the garnish of garnishes! Does she realize what's at stake? This dish cannot pass with a grade of palatable, it must be stupendous! Or what else did we all drive here to do?--"but it just stays kinda liquidy, ya know?"

I taste. She's wrong, it's much better than palatable. In fact, the flavor is quite pleasing, and will do nicely for this evening. However, the low viscosity remains. As it should. The sauce is hotter than heck.

"Won't it thicken as it cools?"
"Oh yeah!"

Good grief.

"Hey while you're here, could you help me with the mashed potatoes?"

I am needed! Just as I suspected, every facet of tonight's meal is in jeopardy!

"Why of course, Aunt Annie! What can I do?"
"Well I peeled, cut, and boiled the potatoes, but they really seem to need a lot of mashing! I've mashed and mashed and they just don't seem... I dunno, as creamy as they usually are. Would you look up a recipe for me?"

A recipe?! Again, I'm astrounded. Do these people have no pride? What about all the family secrets and time honored traditions that exist only in the minds of my ancestors lest they be written down and stolen from us by lesser gourmets! Uh oh. A horrible thought. Are we the lesser gourmets?

"Uh, sure. But I think the problem is you didn't add enough milk."
"Oh right! That's why they're usually creamier! They need cream!"

I add milk.

"I think they might be good with butter too!"
"What isn't?" I joke. She must have been kidding about 'remembering' the butter.
"Maybe some salt and pepper?" I offer, keeping things going.
"Maybe... what does the recipe say?"

Oh dear. This is no joke.

Okay, so I'm a little ashamed. Things are not what they seemed around here. And yet I can't remember a year where I wasn't impressed and well stuffed at the end of Thanksgiving. How did they pull this off without incident so many years running? This family seems like a horrible accident waiting to happen, and yet it never really has.

Later that evening, I'm doing what I can to help out as the finishing touches are put on all the dishes. I'm shocked and relieved to find that everything smells and looks delicious. Just a matter of the proper arrangement for a buffet style supper. And this looks to be a real gut buster. We have 24 pounds of turkey for 12 people. We have enough gravy for 48 pounds. We have enough cranberry sauce to fill 12 of the biggest cups at 7-11, and we have a backup bowl. But this is all good. Leftovers will be welcome.

"No, that spoon is for the pilaf."
"What about the brussel sprouts?"
"Put them here."
"Shouldn't they be next to the other hot things?"

My aunties are a-swarm behind the bar where food is gradually coming to rest, serving utensils leaning out at inviting angles. I know my cousins are ready to eat, and have been for about forty five minutes. We are, naturally, behind schedule.

The food goes through a three card monty's worth of switching and shuffling until I have no idea where the stuffing is. Even more comes out of the oven and gets tucked into the remaining nooks on the tile counter. I glance across the dining room to the pies (two pumpkin, one apple, and a cake too) and wish us luck in making any reasonable dent in this feast.

We tuck in. There's no real blessing or toast, except for a last minute recital of "Bless This House" by Grammy and I. I don't remember the whole thing, but she does and fills in the missing parts. Some hear us, but most are enjoying pleasant conversation and wine. It's a wonderful meal.

I'm impressed with myself at 9pm for finishing off slices of pumpkin and apple pie, and cake, with whipped cream. I am likewise impressed with everyone here, and their contributions. We're a pretty successful family when it comes to making food we all eat too much of, and there's something to be said for that. I think it's okay that we take credit for it, even if we're on the verge of disaster in the creation. I've decided that next year, I'll just stay out of the way during the composition of dinner. I feel that my participation this year was already a lot, given the precariousness of our yearly success, and while I might have helped this time, I might just as easily upset some cosmic balance that I clearly don't understand next time I get my hands dirty. Best to just help with the dishes.