Thanksgiving Irony

It is so pop culture to blame our parents for our short-comings and not to accept responsibility for our actions and behaviors.  So I’m going to jump in here and add myself to the list of adult children whining about their family who has contributed somehow to a major deficiency in their life.  Two years shy of hitting the big 4-0, I had a very big revelation:  I had never cooked a turkey and hadn’t a clue where to begin.  Growing up with my grandparents a mile away, my parents blessedly still alive and living three miles away and my aunt and uncle literally two houses away, the responsibility of cooking a Thanksgiving dinner, let alone a bird of my own, had not been anything I could claim as a personal victory.  Sure, I make a very decent Thanksgiving dinner guest.  I bake a mean pumpkin pie from scratch, even going so far as to whip my own whipped cream. I’ve proudly brought along my homemade Martha Stewart cranberries and an addicting corn casserole (recipe stolen and my children’s favorite).  I bring a nice bottle of wine and maybe even a fall bouquet.  But the main course, the pressure piece, the ultimate representation of domestic godessness, the Thanksgiving bird, remained my most feared cooking endeavor yet.

Now, don’t tell anyone, but I’ve been at Thanksgiving dinner where the bird was overcooked and dry.  There was even a time when someone forgot to turn on the oven and the poor fowl sat, waiting to be made the center of our dinner buffet, only to become leftovers.  These experiences only added to my mental block of being able to make a turkey successfully and rendered me paralyzed with fear.  The cornerstone and  expectation and very definition of Thanksgiving is the precious bird. Let’s be honest, the turkey is the star of the show and can make or break a Thanksgiving dinner.

As was expected, my years of turkey cooking enabling had to come to an end one day.  My aunt and uncle who were the most recent decade’s hosts of Thanksgiving were going out of town and my parents were with my brother and his in-laws.  I was finally on deck.  Put me in coach, I’m ready to play!  With a mix of dread and excitement, I call none other than my dear friend, Georgina, the hard core vegetarian foodie who quite literally knows something about everything, in the most amazing way.  Who else could possibly guide me through this overwhelming experience? Now before you question my sanity, my herbivore pal has also walked me through undoubtedly the most flavorful, tender filet mignon experience of my life (more on that later)  so somehow it seemed natural that she would get me through this.  Calmly and confidently, I was informed that to ensure a moist and delicious turkey, a cheese cloth “breast plate” drenched in ghee, or clarified butter would do wonders.  Simply slicing some onions, carrots, celery and a few lemons to place inside the cavity was a must for basic flavor.  Add a little chicken broth, add a few fresh herbs and spices, cover it with foil and it would be good to go.  Really? Was it this easy?  While she hadn’t necessarily partaken of this exact  item on the Thanksgiving menu, she had undoubtedly prepared many for her carnal craving family and friends.

Several hours and at least as many phone calls to Georgina later, my turkey was as they say, done.  It was time for the show. Table set, potatoes mashed, pumpkin pie baked, cranberries cooked, asparagus steamed, rolls out of the oven, wine corked, all that was left was to carve and serve.  All eyes were on me and of course, the browned and amazing smelling center of attention.  Heart pounding, palms sweating, it was time for the debut. And wouldn’t you know it, this turkey was true perfection.  In all of my cooking adventures, this was by far and most appropriately, the one I was most thankful for.  Vegetarian turkey cooking assistance?  I couldn’t imagine it any other way.  However, irony noted.

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