My First Thanksgiving

I'm forty-five years old and I just cooked my first turkey. It's about time, don't you think? This was a special thanksgiving for me. It was the first time we celebrated in our home and the grandparents came to us. Planning the details of the meal and getting the house ready added extra excitement to the holiday. I wasn't stressed about making the food. The grandmas were bringing pies, salad and rolls. Besides, my years of cooking mass quantities for football players made this event seem less daunting.

The only thing I wasn't sure about was the turkey. Since I had never cooked one before, it felt like a mysterious challenge to me. Maybe it was the literal size of the task. More likely, being up close and personal with a animal carcass was the reason I had avoided it over the years.

I did my homework and spent some time researching the easiest way to cook a turkey. I didn't really comprehend the benefits of soaking the bird in brine, and the the health related cautions about cooking the stuff inside the bird scared me off. I decided to keep things as simple as possible and use our electric roaster.

As I wrestled the bird into the sink, I questioned Perry's decision to buy a 21 pounder. I grabbed the sprayer, considered that cold, pimply-looking carcass, and wondered where to begin. The dogs sat at my feet, probably feeling relieved that someone else was getting a bath for a change. I washed it off, careful to lift its little wings and apologetically rinsed under the little armpits.

The cavity search just about did me in. I groped inside and shuddered as my hands closed around it's slimy neck. I chucked in the garbage in disgust, reconsidering my childhood thoughts of going vegetarian. I knew there was a little baggie of other unwanted "parts" but no matter how many times I plunged my hand back in there, my fingers couldn't locate it.

Finally, I gave up and hoisted the turkey into the roaster. I grabbed Perry's jar of "Butt Rub", a seasoning Perry uses when he smokes pork loin, and grimaced as I gave the bird one last massage. Just as I was closing the lid on the roaster, I spotted the corner of a little bag peeking out of the other end of the bird. Two openings to search...Who knew?

Shortly after that, it started to smell like Thanksgiving in our kitchen. Perry was especially concerned about how we'd know when the turkey was cooked. A couple hours later, we lifted the lid and saw that the bird was no longer intact. It had apparently fallen apart while it cooked. Perry pulled the drumstick which came off in his hand. As we lifted the turkey out of the roaster, it essentially carved itself. The red pop-up button thingy was floating in the juices at the bottom of the pan. I took that as a sure sign that the bird was done.

So, I survived my first attempt at turkey making. It didn't resemble anything from a Martha Stewart magazine cover, but it sure tasted good. It wasn't pretty, but we must have done something right.