Thanksgiving Day, 2020, I spent most of the morning prepping and roasting a turkey.
I used my mother’s technique: cover the breast and legs with cheesecloth, rub butter everywhere, then pour the juice of one orange in the turkey cavity and bake at 400F for half an hour. Turn down the heat and roast until the meat almost falls off the bones.
Everything went smoothly and feeling smug, I checked the turkey around noon. A funny feeling came over me as I noticed something. “Dick, the oven isn’t very hot.” We bent over for closer inspection.
The air wasn’t hot and the turkey remained a pale, yellow color. The last time I’d checked, the skin had started turning darker, but now the process had stopped. The oven temperature read-out showed a respectable temperature, but I knew this wasn’t accurate. “The turkey’s been roasting for three hours. It should be much farther along than this.” I hate to admit this, but I wailed. “Something’s wrong with the oven!”
Our dinner guest was arriving in two hours. The turkey would never be done by then!” I was on the edge of hysteria. This was a cook’s worst nightmare.
Dick assured me. “We’ll figure out something. We’ll get that turkey roasted.” I wasn’t sure.
We fussed and fiddled and reset the oven temperature numerous times. We couldn’t get the temperature hot enough.
I ran to the freezer and dug up my old frozen casserole, nuked that and defrosted it. I was a bit calmer. At least I had something to serve our guests. We still had a huge roaster full of Dick’s delicious dressing. I’d prepared cranberry sauce and Brussels sprouts and Dick had made a pumpkin ice cream pie. Food was plentiful, but the mainstay of Thanksgiving, at this point, was missing. No turkey.
As the appointed dinner time approached and the turkey was still uncooked. I still wasn’t hysterical, but close.
Dick called me into the kitchen. He pointed to the large roaster in which he always made dressing. He’d emptied it.” It’s an electric roaster. It should cook the turkey, probably give it an hour.”
“But our company is almost here. What will we do for an hour?”
“Drink champagne?” He suggested.
We did, and the turkey was one of the best I’ve ever cooked, but I’m compelled to give my husband all the kudos. He solved the problem.
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