A Look On The Lighter Side: Some Thanksgiving turkey tales

The Island Now

Thanksgiving is the one holiday that every American has in common. 
In theory, that is a wonderful thing. 
In practice, however, what it means is that almost every person in America is on the move, trying to get to their family before the turkey hits the table. 
Which puts them all on the road, in front of me, as I try desperately to get to my own family Thanksgiving!
Why, you might ask, do I not stay in one place and make everyone come to me?
That’s simple. I’m terrified.
Sitting in a five-hour traffic backup, no rest room in sight, only to arrive after the last crumb of pie has been cleared away — that, I know how to do.  
What I don’t know how to do is buy a turkey; calculate how long it needs to cook; back-time accordingly, and have the turkey cooked enough not to poison anybody; and also have seven different side dishes all warm and ready at the same time! 
You would have to be a member of the Director’s Guild of America, with both a Macy’s parade and a Superbowl under your belt, to pull off all of that. 
Which is why Thanksgiving usually finds me and my beloved on the road, driving south to one set of in-laws or the other.  
I’m afraid I became rather famous, in my family, for the travel updates I issued no matter when we called:  “We’re in New Jersey.” 
“New Jersey, eh?” my dad always wanted to know. “Exactly where in New Jersey? About-to- cross-over-into-Delaware New Jersey?  Or just coming through the Holland Tunnel?” 
“You’re so cynical, dad. I won’t dignify that question with a response!” 
“Ah. Holland Tunnel. Well, drive safely, and we’ll leave you some dinner in the fridge.” 
The one time I had to stay put and make Thanksgiving was the year my brother and sister-in-law called my bluff. “Yes, we’d love to come and see you,” they said. 
“Bu-bu-but I’ve never cooked a turkey,” I stammered. 
“Don’t worry — I’ll do it with you,” said my sister-in-law.  “I’ll even do it for you, if you want.”
True to her word, she did every bit of the work and got that turkey into the oven.  How was she to know that, when I finally tried to help, and took it out at the very end, I would run the broiler pan over my hand, slicing one finger nail down to the cuticle bed?  A week later, my doctor told me I should have gotten stitches — but who goes to the ER on Thanksgiving?  So that fingernail grew back a little weird.
But at least it wasn’t radioactive!  When my brother was a physics grad student, his turkey was  still frozen solid on Thanksgiving day — and there was nothing in his grad-student kitchen that could warm it up.  So he put it in the car and drove down to his workplace — which happened to be a nuclear lab.  
“I didn’t put it in the linear accelerator, or anything,” he says now.  “It was just the cyclotron —”  
“The what? You nuked the turkey?”
“As I was saying, the cyclotron simply had a bigger microwave than my kitchen at home.” 
“Are you sure it wasn’t radioactive?” 
“I promise. It was just a little bit dry.  Oh, and the left-overs glowed in the dark.” 
Another year, at a different table, I was watching the delicious cranberry Jell-o-mold coming down the table towards me, when I realized, “Something about that cranberry dish seems familiar.”  But I couldn’t quite figure out what.  I took my portion and passed the rest along, still trying to place the nagging thought. 
Suddenly, I had it!  “Oh! I recognize that bowl. It’s your dog’s water dish!”
The dish hit the table with a clatter. One of the uncles said, “What’s Judy going on about?”
“Well,” spoke up the Jell-o-bringer.  “There was one time I used this for the dogs, because it’s nice and heavy and doesn’t move across the floor when they drink. I guess that’s when you were visiting us, Judy.” She turned to the rest of the table. “I washed it out!” 
I got more than my share of the Jell-o, that year.  
Also the Golden Turkey, for diplomacy. 
Here’s hoping everyone’s Thanksgiving this year is safe, delicious…and diplomatic.

By Judy Epstein

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