Thanksgiving 2015

Will Build Thermonuclear Devices For Food.

There is no such thing as "cooking small" when it comes to holidays at the Mallards.

Thanksgiving means a roast beef the size of a toddler, a ham that will break your foot if you drop it, and a whonking big turkey that could appear as the monster in the next Ghostbusters film. We plan on leftovers! (Well…we hope for them.) I think the lowest number we've served was 19; the highest was 39 (a lot of "could I bring a friend" requests that year). No, wait—42. I remember all the Douglas Adams jokes.

Mom was glad to hand over the reins to Barb years ago, and Barb was equally glad to turn the crown over to me—though in all honesty, Ducky does a lot of the cooking. Most of the cooking. But between the two of us, on holidays we crank out enough food to qualify as a small restaurant. Mom and Barb are welcome to wander through the kitchen to help. (And Barb is very welcome to bring her pies.)

The two of them were with me in the kitchen, rolling up a hundred-plus crescent rolls and indulging in remember-whens. Remember when the dial on the stove fell off and somebody put it back on crooked and the oven was off by about 200 degrees and the rolls never browned but turned into hockey pucks? Remember when Ray decided to make homemade cranberry sauce and grabbed the salt by mistake? Remember when Allison put the butter in the mashed potatoes and forgot to take the wrapper off? Remember when the Nelsons retired and closed the ranch and we forgot and had to grab a turkey at the last minute and it was frozen solid the day before and—

"Sure you got a big enough turkey?" Mom asked sweetly.

I didn't jump at the bait. "Yep."

/ / / / /

The first time in the kitchen can be daunting. Mom never sat me down for formal lessons, but I picked up enough from her, a friend's housekeeper in grade school, and a couple of home ec teachers that by high school I was pretty competent among the pots and pans. When I was 16 I begged—begged!—to be allowed to do Thanksgiving dinner. By myself. Everything, soup to nuts.

Nuts was right.

Mom may have had reservations but she didn't voice them. She signed a blank check and sent me off to DeSimone Market with a shopping list only slightly shorter than the Dead Sea Scrolls.

I picked through cranberries and green beans, potatoes and apples, sweet potatoes and pecans. As I kept a running total through the store, about halfway between produce and dairy I realized I had hit well over $50 and was entitled to a free turkey. Hot damn!

"What size?" the butcher asked.

That stumped me. "Big?" I suggested. Mom, Dad, Gamma, Ray (he was good for four or five pounds, alone), his fiancée, Barbara, my bestie, Laurie Peadie and her parents—yikes, I was cooking for NINE PEOPLE!

"I've got a couple of hens, but most are toms." At my baffled look, he explained. "Toms are boy turkeys. They're bigger."

Oh. I knew that, now that I thought about it. "Oh, definitely a tom."

He wrapped and taped my prize and I drove home with a trunk full of groceries and great pride that my careful shopping had netted a FREE turkey. Free!

Mom helped me haul in the goodies, her face growing blanker as she went. "What's wrong?" I asked, scared I'd screwed up.

"That's… a lot of potatoes…"

"I figured two or three. Or four. Per person?"

"Mmmh. Fresh cranberries…?"

"I saw a recipe in your Betty Crocker book…"

She gave me a game smile. "I'll pick up a couple of cans of Ocean Spray tomorrow. Just in case you get behind."

We got down to Tommy Turkey and I heard a tiny gasp. "Cassie… I ordered a turkey from Nelson's Ranch, Daddy is going to pick it up tonight after work."

"But, Mom—this was free!"

"And so large," she murmured.

"Uh-huh! I know Ray eats like he's trying to start a famine. And leftovers are always good—"

"Oh, there will be leftovers…" Suddenly she grinned. "Okay, put our guest in the spare fridge in the garage. At least he isn't frozen. And dig out the Betty Crocker and check roasting times so we know when to start." As I headed to the old fridge, I heard a plaintive, "Dear god—roasting pan…!" behind me.

I figured we'd finish the leftovers in a few days, then roast the second bird. Mom put the turkey from Nelson's directly in the freezer in the garage; seemed silly to me.

Everyone ate until they were half asleep and slightly green around the gills.

The rolls were a little burnt but everyone ate them anyway. The gravy was a little lumpy but mom poured it through a sieve and saved it. And the cranberry sauce was a horrible mess. Mom's cans of Ocean Spray were gratefully put into use.

Mrs. Peadie was thrilled with the tons of leftovers that went home; she said she wouldn't have to cook for days. I laughed; days?

We had turkey sandwiches for lunch for the next five days.
(We made devilled turkey sandwiches when the regular ones started to pall.)
We warmed over the full dinner for three days.
We made turkey soup.
Turkey stew.
Turkey tetrazzini.
Turkey chili.
Turkey stroganoff.

The rest (and there was still plenty) got bagged and put into the freezer next to the Nelson's Ranch bird. (I think we finished the last of it just before St. Patrick's Day. Since we had fixed ham for Christmas (NOBODY wanted to see turkey again), we used the second bird for Easter.) When I put away the leftovers, I saw the tag on the little turkey—12.43 lbs. Yeah… in retrospect, 27.71 was a bit much.

But it was free, dang it!

/ / / / /

Mom was still smirking as she watched me wrestle to bird out of the oven. (The roast and ham were wrapped in foil and staying warm in crock pots.) "Twenty-three pounds? Twenty-four?"

I tossed her the tag. "Thirty-one. I don't count the point eleven."

"Leftovers?"

From the living room I heard Tony DiNozzo and my brother, Ray, whooping it up with my nephews. "With those appetites? I wish!"

Since I was late for Halloween, it only seems fair to be early for Thanksgiving…