Turkey Leftovers
Like many men, I am different from my wife in ways which are
noticeable, and, in my opinion, fortunate.
Take the Thanksgiving turkey (and I mean that literally. PLEASE
come over to our house, open the refrigerator, shove aside everything
growing green fuzz, and take this carcass away before it reincarnates
as turkey lasagna or turkey tetracycline or whatever new concoction
awaits the family.) But take Thanksgiving--my wife prefers small
birds that fit nicely into the roasting pan and which can be cooked in
a few hours.
"Ha!" I can be quoted as sneering. I trace my own gender lineage to
that proud, hairy group of hunter-gatherers who, prior to the
invention of TV remote control, would take their spears and go pull
down a huge bison for dinner, stopping at the bar on the way home for
a couple of cave brews. So when I go to the store for a turkey, I
find a TURKEY: a Jurassic, many-pound fowl with drum sticks as large
as my thighs and wings you could park a car under.
Words cannot describe the delight on my wife's face when my neighbors
help me carry the bird into the refrigerator, where, following the
instructions, it is left to thaw for a period of six months. (My
wife often has several interesting but impractical suggestions on
where else we might stick the turkey for this thawing procedure.)
Cooking begins around Halloween, a slow roasting process which varies
from my mother's recipe in that there are no flames or threats of
divorce "if anybody says a word about how the turkey tastes."
I enjoy every step of turkey preparation, particularly since I am not
involved in any of it. Well, that's not entirely true--at one point,
I am asked to reach into the mouth of the turkey and retrieve the
giblets, which turns out to be a bag of what looks like pieces of
Jimmy Hoffa. (I realize I am not, technically speaking, putting my
hand in the bird's "mouth," but I'd rather not dwell on what this
means.) How the turkey manages to swallow this stuff in the first
place is beyond me. Traditionally, we open this bag, dump the
contents into a pan of water, and boil the results. Only the cat is
happy about this development.
As wonderful as this all is, by the fourth or fifth night my appetite
for turkey variations has waned, and I provide valuable feedback to my
wife by making gagging noises at dinner time. Her verbal (as opposed
to projectile) response to this is to imply that it is somehow MY
fault we have so many leftovers, to which I logically reply, "hey, YOU
cooked it."
Now, before you men out there become too smug with how adroitly I out
maneuvered her with my quick retort, you should be advised that she
STILL blames me for our turkey-induced bulimia. Therefore I appeal to
my readership: has anyone else noticed bizarre psychiatric spousal
reactions to turkey consumption which might explain this whole
controversy? Please advise via return e-mail, which will be picked up
by the crack WBC technical team and, judging by previous results,
forwarded to the Governor of New Jersey.
Thanks . . . oh, and Happy Thanksgiving too.
[ by
W. Bruce Cameron Copyright © 1995-2002 -- { used with permission } ]
Inspirational Humor
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