Life As Prescribed

I am 66. I would lie about my age since I could probably get away with shaving off a few years, but anyone can find out the truth so why bother? Plus there are all those old high-school friends who know. Anyway, for the past 65 years, with the exception of my first year when I would have been only five months old and still toothless, and two other times I will describe herein, I have eaten turkey on Thanksgiving. In childhood my grandmother, no less than The Greatest Cook Who Ever Lived, made it all, and I ate it all, and that's why I was chubby as a teenager. She finally died and I was able to slim down, and after that I was the primary cook and prepared the typical feast of roast turkey with stuffing and gravy, cranberry-orange relish, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, green beans, Brussels sprouts, salad, corn bread, pumpkin pie with whipped cream and apple pie a la mode. (One year when my brother-in-law was in attendance, we added those little creamed pearl onions that he made, but we ditched that from the menu soon after.) Besides cooking all the stuff I also ate a lot of it, not only during the cooking process for quality control purposes but at the table, making me marvel at how I'm still alive.

The Exceptions
In the late 1970s or early 1980s, between husbands, I went out for Chinese food with my gay best friend Richard. We ate Chinese because everything else was closed. As I recall, we ordered moo shu pork and drank a lot. Another year, it happened to be 1999, my husband and I tried barbecuing a turkey that never got done--I think we must have done something wrong. Anyway, it didn't really matter since our only invited guests, who were driving from New Jersey or maybe Maine, cancelled as we were looking out the window wondering where they were, saying they had turned around because of traffic. Pissed to high Heaven, we threw out the turkey and I don't remember what we ate; we maybe brought all the trimmings to a local food shelter and then got burgers from McDonald's. Or not, this may not have even happened exactly that way, but something like it did and that's close enough for me.

The Highlights
In 1974 I flew from Washington, D. C. to Florida with my then-boyfriend, meeting his parents and some of his other relatives for the first--and only--time. His mother's specialty was candied sweet potatoes smothered with marshmallows. I caused a ruckus by refusing to eat any, saying "I don't like my vegetables with candy melted on top." People were stunned. I was reminded by all other attendees that, "this is Mom's specialty, try it." I refused and fled the table, spending the next hour weeping in a bedroom. Although his mother forgave me, saying she "didn't give a hoot," the boyfriend and I broke up on the plane ride home. (We had other problems, trust me.)

In 1990, my husband and I drove to from D.C. to Baltimore with our precocious toddler sleeping in the back seat, to have dinner with my relatives. During the hour's drive I alerted Mitch to the fact that my aunt, the hostess, had actually roasted the turkey the day before and sliced it, refrigerating it overnight. She would be warming it up for dinner. I thought he should have this information ahead of time to avoid putting his foot in his mouth. As expected, since he is a holiday purist, he was deeply shocked and dismayed, exclaiming, "Oh great--we're having reheated leftovers for Thanksgiving!" Later, seated at the table with the other 10 or 12 attendees, our son refused to eat, saying petulantly, "This turkey is reheated!" A scene ensued; suffice it to say that had Woody Allen been there, he would have surely taken notes.

This Year
Depends. I might do it and I might not. But whatever, it will be a last-minute decision since I have not ordered my free-range, organic, all-natural, no-hormones-added dead bird from Whole Foods, or anywhere else. There will be pie, however.