I don’t want to cook a turkey right now
But I will
My father loved turkey. Not the deli slices, not a reasonably sized wing or thigh. He loved butterballs; he loved the “fixings”. I grew up in Europe, he lived on the East Coast. When I moved to the United States to attend college, after 12 thanksgivings apart I got to truly appreciate my dad in turkey mode. I had only previously experienced this altered state over a rarified long-distance phone line and did not grasp the extent of the phenomenon until we were bound together by our new American calling plan.
“I got the yams”, he breathlessly whispered into the phone — on October 28th. “Nice!” I responded, never having eaten a yam and hoping that they had a good shelf life. Then came the can of pumpkin flesh a few days later, followed by a box of “dressing” which I still staunchly call stuffing. I got another call announcing that he had acquired a can of cranberry jelly, he giggled gleefully. And just as I set out for the train station to get from DC to New Jersey, he called to tell me the spuds were in the bag.
I was really impressed with the snail’s pace of this shopping spree. My dad was on a fixed income and close to 70 that first thanksgiving, I quietly assumed he had been going slow and steady out of parsimony. I imagined coupons and specials were involved but didn’t give it that much thought. My sister (with her family) and my father lived a block apart and hers was the bigger place and our general HQ. I was, after all of the weighty missives, expecting a pantry filled with cranberries, yams (whatever they might look like), dressing, and spuds aplenty. We were after all 6 or 8 people with healthy appetites.
When Dad strode into my sister’s kitchen with a tame grocery bag holding 1 can of pumpkin, 1 can of cranberry jelly, 3 yams, 3 potatoes and 1 box of stuffing mix I was deeply perplexed. My sister meanwhile announced that we were all invited around the corner to our cousin’s Thanksgiving extravaganza and that’s when it hit me… he’d never mentioned the turkey. He knew all along. He had still loved every minute of his quest. And he knew that butterballs would be on sale in the morning. They would, of course, be very cheap and he’d be ready with his fixings.
I only got a few thanksgivings with Dad. They just got weirder and more fun. The next year I had my first ever apartment and my roommates graciously let us have the use of it. Dad and I perfected our long game leading up to our tête-à-tête butterball. I left him a voicemail about a choice handful of chestnuts. He retaliated with news of a gourmet brand of dressing he got on sale. I drove up to Wholefoods and bought real cranberries, frozen because it was still 3 weeks out. On Thanksgiving Thursday we forgot to thaw out the Turkey. We cursed, we laughed, we tried giving it a warm bath, we had take-out. And then the best Friday thanksgiving turkey ever.
The next year I drove up from DC in my first car with a friend and we stayed at the Jersey HQ with my dad. This time the turkey was appropriately unfrozen and delicious. Since none of us could agree, and no one was watching, we made three separate boxes of dressing to each of our tastes — all confessing that really, we were in it for the Stove Top and the gravy. Or so he said — because two days after we returned to our dorm, he left me a radiant voicemail bragging about the great deal he got on a post T-Day butterball. He was thrilled to be cooking a repeat meal for my sister who was back from her in-laws in California, and convinced they could not have done the fixings justice.
My dad passed in January 2019 and I threw him a wild celebration of a remembrance in November. We had two Turkeys, and three generations, and too many fixings and the best dressing and everyone contributed, and no one bickered, and the wine was good and the beer cold. The pictures were even Instagram worthy. I was across the Atlantic, and almost no Americans were present and as such no one could comprehend why there was so much free food on display upon a Thursday in November. When the turkey enzymes and the wine did the trick, they all settled down and came to the natural conclusion that turkey is the noblest of fowl and the most unifying. This was my father’s most steadfast belief and I am happy that I could spread the word.
This year, I have tenderly amassed the tiny stockpile that would have made him giddily exultant. There are 3 yams on a shelf. I have some stale bread doing its thing, preparing to be dressing. Cranberries are holding court in the freezer. We are only four, but a foursome that would have relished my father’s company.
I will get a bird. But not because I want turkey meat. I want a large thing to take up all of my table space and crowd out all of the angst and the sadness. I want something to fill the void of those that should rightfully be by my side. I want that short list of inexpensive, iconic and tasty items to thread a joyful narrative of commonality with gatherings passed. And then, in the quiet of my own HQ, I want to slump down on the shoulders of my loved ones and breath the sigh of home.
