The Year of the Questionable Thanksgiving

On the day when most Americans look forward to overindulging on juicy turkey, succulent stuffing and scrumptious pie, my family and I did our best to avoid it.

Growing up, Thanksgiving was spent at my grandparents’ house which was about as fun as a root canal.  My grandmother was many things, but a good cook was not one of them.  Not only was her cooking poor, it was compounded by the fact she hated it. And she let us know it, too. She bitched while she basted, swore while she stirred and fought with my Pop-Pop over the frozen peas. She refused all help and despite her hatred of all things food, she insisted on hosting the mother of all food holidays.

Each year, we would sit around the table spooning mashed potatoes with speed bumps in them onto our plates while heaping steaming piles of green bean casserole that looked like it would be more aptly suited for swamp than at the dinner table. Not wanting to hurt my grandmother’s feelings, we would compliment her on the meal with exaggerated nods and enthusiastic chewing. Runny cranberry sauce and chunky white gravy was as much of a tradition for us as the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.

As the years went on, the food got worse until one year it nearly killed us. Literally.

Grouchy from tending to a turkey that refused to cook, my grandmother threw her hands in the air and with an “Oh, what the hell!” yanked a very pale turkey out of the oven, slid it onto a serving platter and heaved it onto the table in front of us. My sister and I stared at the bird. We didn’t dare comment on the obvious, instead, resorting to telepathic stares exclaiming, “This turkey is white. White! There’s no way this thing’s not raw inside.”

As everyone gathered at the table, I watched pale, pink blood pool underneath the turkey as it rested in front of us, as if daring us to tempt fate. Instead of stating the obvious, we silently scooped fixings onto our plates, diverting our eyes from the glare of the turkey sitting before us.

At last, my father spoke. “Some turkey, huh?” he said while taking a bite off the leg. “Hmm, hmm,” we all nodded, taking his cue of, you’d-better-be-polite-and-eat-it-or-else.

I looked down at my plate and took a deep breath before slicing a piece of turkey the size of my pinky nail. I quickly buried it in a forkful of lukewarm sauerkraut and took a bite, thankful the vinegar masked the flavor of the underdone turkey. I hoped it would also coat my intestines from the bacteria that were sure to be lurking in a bird the Food and Drug Administration would have a heyday over.

The rest of the meal proceeded pleasantly as each of us disguised our turkey with potato rolls or stuffing. Soon, the sun began to dip behind the hills and the air outside turned crisp. As my family and I loaded into the mini-van for the hour long drive home, I watched my grandfather scurry into the house and return with a bulging plastic grocery bag.

“These are for the ride home. You know, in case you need ‘em,” he said gruffly.

And then he winked.

Inside the bag were two empty ice cream cartons – handy containers we could use in case the undercooked bird decided to return for an encore.

Thankfully, none of us needed them.