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November 26, 2009

A First-Timer's View on Cooking a Turkey

Happy Thanksgiving to all, and to all a... Wait, I'm mixing my holidays here. And I shouldn't be because Thanksgiving is one of my most treasured days of the year. It's full of warm gatherings, family, friends, and fun. And best of all, the year's most delicious, delectable food!

I'd like to share with you today an essay I wrote about the first time my husband and I took on the challenge of preparing Thanksgiving dinner. The piece originally appeared in the Pittsburgh Tribune-Review several years ago (but don't worry because all publication rights have reverted back to me). This is one of my favorite stories to tell.

The Turkey's Wingless Flight
by Judith Burnett Schneider

A few problems arose with our decision to spend the Thanksgiving holiday at Mom's vacation condo in Florida. My husband and I would miss the family, for certain. But they could use the extra elbow room at the table. More critically, we'd miss our mothers. Without them, who would cook the Thanksgiving turkey?

At first, neither of us wanted the honor. As a newlywed, my cooking expertise was limited to boxed macaroni and cheese, packaged kielbasa, and my favorite, frozen peas. I was, however, the more qualified chef as my husband's gourmet talent was comprised of take-out in any form. After minimal deliberation, the answer became clear. We would have to go out for Thanksgiving dinner.

But Thanksgiving was supposed to be a personal holiday -- nothing commercial, nothing overdone (except the crispy, browned skin of a properly roasted bird). I longed for the glow of candlelight and the taste of old family cuisine wrapped in the comforts of home albeit, this year, away from home.

"I'll do it," I said, unwilling to succumb to the temptations of a cold and impersonal (and no doubt exclusive) restaurant. At the same time, my husband decided that he wanted to cook. (For the record, it was the last time he ever offered.) At work for him was the I-can-do-anything-you-can-do-better ploy. The challenge grew from dining out, to boxed stuffing, to preparing the gourmet family recipe. Our Thanksgiving dinner in Florida would be as close to "the usual" as possible, minus sharing the table with 30 or so additional people. With this decision, however, came another problem. Arriving late Wednesday night, when would we shop for the cooking necessities? (At the time, there were no 24-hour grocery stores, believe it or not.)

The solution came to me one night in a dream...Turkeys can fly. We could transport a frozen turkey on the plane with us -- a sort of thawing in flight. Surely the FDA (and probably the FAA -- this was pre-9/11, remember) would shake a pointed finger at the mere concept, but it was a risk we would have to take.

My husband found the idea to be ingenious. In addition to the turkey-transport, he intended to transfer other supplies including the ingredients for the family stuffing recipe. Which raised the following question: Do we follow his mother's family recipe? Or mine? In time, we found compromise. The stuffing would include what I liked about my mother's recipe and what he liked about his but would exclude what he didn't like about my mother's and what I didn't like about his. Complicated, yet delightfully simple.

Wednesday came, the day of our departure. I carried my portable Igloo cooler loaded with a hand-chosen twelve-pound frozen turkey which definitely weighed far more than twelve pounds. My husband toted the pantry package.

In the airport, people stared and pointed. We looked like a pair of surgeons carrying an organ for transplant. I couldn't have guessed that a cooler containing a thawing bird (that wasn't getting any lighter) would attract so much attention. It must have been the reason for our parting crowds, in addition to hailing a cab so quickly, even from the back of the line. Above all, we probably broke world records: Thanksgiving Turkey's First Jet/Cab Jaunt.

Early Thanksgiving morning, as the oven heated the already sun-warmed kitchen, we realized it was time to do what we must to our flying friend. After unwrapping and rinsing, I lifted the turkey into the pan while my husband prepared the candied sweet potatoes. Fumbling through the cabinet, I located the roasting pan lid and stood up. Something wasn't right. The turkey had moved. He was open-armed as if to invite me into the pan. "Ooo." I jumped.

In all the advice I'd been offered before our trip, there was no mention of the turkey's flapping wings. I pushed the wings back against the body of the bird. They stuck for a moment and then popped out again. I entered some involuntary form of panic. Historically, I had not been one who enjoyed entertaining thoughts of what my food used to be before it landed on my plate. But this turkey wouldn't let me forget.

Abandoning the sweet potatoes, my husband came to my aid. He pulled two baking pins from a nearby drawer. The expert, I sighed. The take-out artist. I stepped aside and let him do what he could. He tacked the turkey's wings to the body but the elbows, if that's what they're called, jutted out to touch the sides of the pan. "We can't have that," I said. "It looks, I don't know, uncomfortable." My husband agreed. We tried several other pinning positions, none of which looked any more natural than the first. "He looks like he's doing the chicken dance," I said.

Silence ensued. "The wings will have to go," my husband said. Far behind schedule already, we were left with no alternative. And as white meat eaters, neither of us would miss the problem limbs. So with a quick slip of the knife, the wings were gone. Hurriedly, I stuffed the wingless turkey, slammed the lid, and shoved the bird into the oven. The worst had to be over.

With the table set, the candles lit, and the fiery sunset igniting the horizon, we gathered, the two of us, to enjoy a private, hard-earned Thanksgiving dinner. My husband carved and I served. After much planning, everything was perfect. I didn't miss the cold Thanksgiving Day weather they were reportedly having back home. We toasted to health and happiness, said a thankful-filled grace, and plunged in for the true test. The turkey was moist and tender. The sweet potatoes were scrumptious. And now, to taste the combination stuffing recipe. Sinking my fork into the bready mound, I stabbed something -- something that had to be inedible. Could it be paper? Oh no, not the sack that housed the giblets and other things I didn't want to think about. Oh yes!

My husband and I toasted our near success on that memorable Thanksgiving Day. It was no tragedy to have prepared a wingless turkey. After all, we succeeded in forming new family traditions. The whole traveling turkey, dewinging experience was rather enjoyable (although dining in even the most ordinary of restaurants might not have been such a bad alternative). Over coffee, we discussed a range of topics including the pros and cons of removing the giblet bag before cooking. We even decided to attempt pumpkin pie some time. In the end, we vowed never to roast another turkey on Thanksgiving -- without first removing its flapping wings.

(This essay originally appeared in the Pittsburgh Tribune-Review on November 20, 1994)

This is reprinted in loving memory of my husband's mother, Ann Schneider. This will be our first Thanksgiving without her. She will be warmly remembered and missed.

I wish you all a warm and wonderful Thanksgiving Day!

Judy

Posted by Judy at 10:27 AM | Comments (2)