Turkeys

I was never bothered by guilt over all the turkeys we put to death each Thanksgiving—a holiday that, as my cousin Gary pointed out to me over dinner last night, commemorates how our ancestors came here, stole food from the Indians, learned from them how to live off the land, and then slaughtered them like pigs. He said it just that way, too. Harsh.

But this year, I’m having a bit of difficulty with the turkey thing.

First of all, there was a family of wild turkeys by my mother’s house this summer, and as we watched the family we got to see their poults (which is that what baby turkeys are called) grow up. All summer we watched them walk around the neighborhood in this cute sort of lineup. My mother, who was fighting cancer, loved watching them, as did anyone visiting her. I sort of felt they were family.

Then I drove by a turkey farm last week and saw a truck in the middle of the field, loading the turkeys in, and I had to look away. So many turkeys with so little time.

I have had a long relationship with turkeys on Thanksgiving. I have always, always, always named them, every year. Fred. Oliver. Naming them gave them real personalities, and it always brought my family closer together to laugh about poor old Anthony, who should have worked out harder to build those thigh muscles up a bit. Then there was Sam. During the Thanksgiving I cooked for Mother-in-Law Number One (battleaxe that she was!), Sam slid across the floor, leaving a greasy trail behind him. I picked him up and put him on the platter in the nick of time, just before MIL walked in and looked questioningly at the trail on the floor. Then there was the turkey (whose name escapes me at the moment) that just couldn’t get beyond medium rare in time. Let’s not talk about that right now.

We all have turkey memories, those Norman Rockwell moments. The one that is etched in my mind is of my father, standing at the head of the table while we all breathlessly watched him carve the bird, declaring each and every year, “Tilly, I think this might be the best turkey you ever made. It is perfectly moist.” Same comment every year, and I’m not even sure he knew it.

My daughter’s happiest Thanksgivings were at my step-sister’s house, where two—or sometimes three—turkeys were served. I never liked that. It seemed like cheating or something, although let’s face it: if you have twenty-five people, one bird just doesn’t do it. For me, though, carving one turkey at the table was enough, and it was important to acknowledge the turkey’s sacrifice.

I don’t remember much about those Thanksgivings, but I always remember the turkey. Anyway, Thanksgiving is at my house this year, and after writing this and giving the turkeys their due, I’m over the guilt thing. As soon as I finish this I am looking up the Epicurious recipe I have always used to cook the bird. So Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours and your turkey. We all have at least one in the family on this day.