Let’s talk Turkey. This month, some lucky feathered fowl and I will square off on the kitchen dance floor in what will either be an eloquent waltz or a dance akin to the bird for which it was named – the Turkey Trot. The turkey trot was a dance made popular in the early 1900s set to fast ragtime music. Basically it consisted of lots of hopping about embellished with scissor-like flicks of the feet and fast trotting actions with abrupt stops. That pretty much sums up the steps I go through in order to get my bird in the roasting pan. In the early hours of Christmas morning, adorned with a good dose of bed head hair, rumpled pajamas and fuzzy slippers I address my dance partner. Who will take the lead I wonder? Although the turkey is at rest I am wired and suffering from sleep deprivation due to a late night of frantic giftwrapping and the writing of witty and pithy comments on corresponding gift tags (written in order to uphold a longstanding Bailey family tradition).
Side Note: Beware the Enticement to Establish Fanciful Family Traditions. In a moment of memory making whimsy, I told my children that birthday trolls visit through the dryer vent in the laundry room on their birthday and fill their rooms with copious numbers of balloons. That bright idea has left me breathless and lightheaded for years!
Anyway, back to talking turkey. I am sorry to say that more than one turkey has had its way with me. Because of this, the ladies at St. Alban’s church will never ask me to cook one of our feathered friends for the Community Christmas Dinner they hold on December 25th. The year they did, the turkey I thought I had completely defrosted before I put it in the oven to cook was still frozen and ended up being too raw to serve to their eagerly awaiting patrons. Oh my. One year, I thought the pre-pasted turkey I bought needed a little extra butter and so I added a pound or so of Julia Child’s favourite ingredient and ended up setting my stove on fire and having to call the fire department. There was the time when dear Tom the Turkey had to be thawed in the bathtub short hours before the masses arrived, with my daughter helping me to pry the bag full of heart, liver and giblets from the grip of it’s icy innards. One year, I did cook a lovely turkey (Norman Rockwell worthy) and was ever so excited to eat it when I heard a loud thump come from the kitchen and ran in to discover our family cat dragging it across the floor into a main floor bedroom and refusing, amid a caterwaul of hissing and spitting, to relinquish it from underneath the bed.
Don’t get me wrong. I love this holiday season but needless to say, my favourite thing to make for Christmas dinner is a reservation!
Merry Christmas!
Janet
