When Turkey Day Goes Awry

Norman Rockwell has set us all up for failure.


Just look at this picture. The perfect roasted turkey served from the platter for all the guests to "ooooooooh" and "aaaaahhhhhh" over. The perfectly set table with white linens, matching silverware (I've analyzed this picture under a microscope; they match, trust me), and the look of excitement and Thanksgiving enjoyment from loving family gathered for the special occassion.

There's even Uncle Bob down there in the corner. He's the fun uncle that all the kids love and the one who will arm wrestle anyone for the wishbone.

Now when I volunteered to host this year's Thanksgiving at our newly expanded home, I didn't have my expectations set as high as this idyllic picture from back in 1943. I had just hoped that I could make it through my inaugural attempt at cooking a 20 lb. bird with success, that my stuffing would be moist, and that the day would be uneventful and relaxing.

No sweat, right?

Let's start with the star of the day: The Turkey. A 20 lb. turkey is a nice sized chunk of poultry. Ye olde internet has about 5 million suggestions on how to handle such a bird and they all gave different directions. I was left scratching my head. The folks at the turkey farm where we got ours said 15 minutes for every pound of unstuffed turkey. I figured that would be around 5 hours. Other sources suggested it would only be 3 - 3.5 hours. Some said high heat while others insisted on low. Bake in a bag. Open pan roast. Tent with tinfoil. Lather in butter. Smear with olive oil. So many suggestions. So many hints.

SO MUCH PRESSURE!!!!

I opted to allow myself at least 5 hours like the turkey farm suggested. I decided to start at 325 degrees and then up the temp towards the end to get that golden brown. If Grandma in the crisp and clean white apron can do it (up above), why can't I?

I should probably mention here that shortly after everyone arrived, the kitchen faucet broke. There was water spraying everywhere. Jeff was under the sink trying to fix it while Kennedy and my brother-in-law were in her bathroom hand washing dishes. He couldn't get it fixed so the remainder of the day (and even this morning) I have no water in my kitchen.

Awesome.

Where were we? Oh, yes - the turkey was cooking. People were mingling and there were many bodies in my kitchen. Too many bodies in my kitchen. I started to perspire. I have learned something about myself over the years. I love to cook and am fairly decent at it. I love to feed people and am fairly decent at that too. But stay out of my dang kitchen, folks! It makes me crazy! Especially on a day when I'm trying to cook the one thing that has caused stress and strife for billions of homemakers over the years. We've all heard stories of over cooked and under cooked turkeys being laid out for guests and the difficulty in knowing whether to wait for the blasted red turkey timer button to pop out ("do you think it is broken?"). It's no wonder that when the hostess finally sits down to eat she has no appetite - she has just run a culinary marathon and is too exhausted to enjoy the fruits of her labors.

So I'm nervous because everything else is cooked and ready to go except for that stupid carcass in the oven. My projected 5 hour cooking window has come and gone and the turkey is far from done. I'm really trying to hint to my guests to make their way into the family room to watch some TV, or to visit, or to do anything other than watch me frantically watch that red turkey button. I'm not sure how much longer we can wait. My holiday creamed corn is thickening more and more on the stove top and is threatening to turn to porridge rather than the prize winning delicacy it truly is. I worry that my stuffing can only handle so much heat before it starts to dry out, and when do I put in mom's sweet potato casserole (with those adorable mini marshmallows) so that it lightly browns to perfection?

Jeff's working on the faucet. I'm putting on an ungraceful cooking show for my audience of guests who are STILL IN MY KITCHEN, and my internal fight or flight response kicks in. I just want to throw in the towel and head to Cafe Rio (by myself) for a little R & R. I have no qualms about eating a sweet pork salad on Thanksgiving. It's a day for thanks giving. I'm thankful for sweet pork in salad form. It works for me.

Long story getting even longer, the tension between Jeff and I is rising. He's been fiddling with that dang faucet (that I told him to either fix or replace months earlier), we're now almost to the 6 hour turkey cooking time and the turkey is only semi cooked, people are starving, I'm trying to keep everything warm, and I'm fighting back the sting of tears from the pressure cooker situation. Who volunteered me to do this?

I did.

Jeff whips out the turkey and just starts carving. The top layers of turkey are cooked (barely?), so he just whittles away what he thinks we can serve without making our guests violently ill. I hurry and stick my mom's sweet potato casserole in the oven close to the broiler so that it can quickly brown up. Everything is set on the table and I grab tin foil and cover it all so that it doesn't lose heat too fast. I'm sweating, and still thinking about sweet pork, and trying to get everyone comfortable and seated.

And then I smell something.

A funny burnt smell? A smell reminiscent of camping trips and cook outs? I sniff the air and wonder why I'm suddenly craving s'mores. I open my oven. I see an inferno of flames jetting out from under the broiler.

THE MARSHMALLOWS!

In my frenzy, I had forgotten that marshmallows, when cooked, puff up. Those adorable little things puffed up so much that they touched the flame of the broiler and caught fire. There was a fire in my oven! This is a first for me so what did I do? I closed the oven door. I don't know if I thought that by closing the door it would somehow deprive the flames of oxygen and they would extinguish themselves, but it seemed like the right thing to do. Jeff opened the oven door again and I started to try and blow out the flames. The guests, all patiently waiting at the table and enjoying the Thanksgiving Day Spectacular that was being performed in my kitchen, found this all quite amusing. They laughed. And laughed. They pointed fingers. And laughed.

I, however, was most definitely not laughing.

The sweet potato casserole was doused. A lovely blanket of smoke had settled on our blessed occasion. The temperature of the food was plummeting, the borderline-cooked turkey was sadly plattered and set on the table, and Kennedy was asked to bless the food.

But the difference between an ordinary Thanksgiving and a memorable, EXTRAordinary Thanksgiving is when the fire alarm goes off during the prayer.

Awesome.

With echoes of laughing in my ears (oh, rest assured, they were laughing AT me, not with me) and a very thin barrier between me and a very ugly crying scene, I sat down to eat my dinner.

And, staying true to tradition with millions of other housewives, I didn't eat very much.

I was worn out.

{sigh}

*************

Post note:

As a thank you for reading my very lengthy tale of Thanksgiving Travesty, I offer you this photo showing what happens to marshmallows when they are set aflame. I can finally see the comedy of yesterday's mishaps.

So, go ahead and laugh.

My guests all did.

;0