The first Thanksgiving turkey I fixed was as bad as they come. I assumed since Mom was the best turkey preparer in the world, her talent would automatically pass on to me.
After all, I helped her fix her Thanksgiving dinners by whipping cream for pumpkin pie.
The first clue that it took more than genes to cook a good turkey happened when I pulled my finished fowl from the oven and peered into the roasting pan. Only a few meager spoonsful of overcooked turkey juice puddled in the bottom. Enough for one cup of gravy…maybe.
I thought of my mother’s dining table with two gravy boats filled with rich brown liquid and more in the kitchen. How did Mom do it? Where did she get all the pan drippings?
I stirred in a bit of flour, added a can of chicken stock and managed to fill a small bowl of pallid tan gravy. This wasn’t going as well as I’d planned.
The second clue that cooking wasn’t necessarily a DNA thing occurred when I carved the turkey. Feeling crest-fallen but still maintaining a sense of achievement, I noticed with a twinge of disappointment that the skin of my turkey hadn’t taken on the golden-brown hue of my mother’s. And, sneaking a bite or two, was disappointed to find this skin wasn’t crispy either.
I carved away, noting the meat wasn’t exactly falling from the bones. A little tough, I supposed. At least I’d done it. A lot of young women kept depending on their moms, but I’d taken one more step to adulthood. So what if my cooking skills weren’t honed? Plenty of time for that, and despite my setbacks, my newlywed husband and I sat down to eat.
Busy chewing, a thought suddenly struck. Where was the neck? My husband had voiced a love of turkey neck. Hmm. Another thought occurred. Where were the giblets, liver and heart?
Examining my poor pathetic roast turkey, I opened the neck cavity and pulled out a small paper bag. I’d forgotten to take out the bag of giblets and neck always placed in the neck cavity. What’s worse, I hadn’t forgotten. I simply hadn’t known that was the way things were done.
Years have passed. Fortunately, with a lot of practice, my cooking skills improved until finally, I can brag in all sincerity that my roast turkeys are as good as Mom’s, but every Thanksgiving when I take the little paper bag filled with turkey parts from the neck cavity, I remember my first turkey attempt.
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