The curse of the Christmas turkey
I’ve never been a huge fan of turkey, but I cannot describe my determination to devour this Christmas turkey. It died with a fight, I bet. The thing may as well have cooked alive, squawking and making a mess all over the kitchen, because it somehow managed to do that and more without a single feather existing on its thick, 22-pound carcass.
The turkey stole most of the room in the freezer. It set out for three days, ready to cook beginning Christmas morning. This is where the fun begins:
9am: I finished making breakfast, so I gave my grandma access to the oven, where she set the heavy turkey in. Timer set for five hours.
2pm: The turkey should be done by now. Not a single aroma wafts throughout the house, gracing us with rich, cooked meaty flavors we all love to enjoy. (Though I don’t like turkey, I LOVE the smell) We spent the past five hours preparing all other sides for the turkey, ready to throw them in the oven and cook throughout the next hour. We open the oven and cold air flows into the kitchen, bursting our hopes of a gorgeous, brown turkey. No one turned the oven on.
We decided to cook everything else and eat that for lunch, save the turkey for a very late dinner.
9pm: Time to turn the turkey. How many Berrymans does it take to put a turkey in the oven? Well, let me tell you. My grandma and I used our two-pronged forks to dig into either side of the turkey, hoping to turn it over into another pan. The turkey fought back, using its weight against our limited strength as we pushed and pulled the hormonal beast in the pan, somehow failing to turn the thing over. Its juices splashed over the counter as it fought with our attempts until, finally, the stupid thing crashed into the other pan, finally, turned over. Now, to put it in the oven. Aluminum pans are not strong and turkeys WILL use that to their advantage. As the heat blows over our faces, stabbing them with swords of hot air, we each grab a side of the turkey, its conniving acts already a suspicion in our mind. (Teamwork–you’d think it would make things happen) We push the pan forward, but alas, the pan refuses to budge. Stuck between free air and a fiery furnace, the turkey grins at its next attempt, determined not to let this cooking complete. With another push and lift with our fatigued (from the day, not the turkey) muscles, we manage to push the turkey in again, the aluminum pan warped around it in a strange form.
I officially hate the turkey by now.
10pm: The creature is cooked. Its legs are split apart and the smell of victory is heavenly. I am beckoned into the kitchen and, suddenly, a cry for napkins erupts throughout the house. A random hole appears in the pan and juice pours onto the counter and floor, coating everything in a wet, greasy sheen. With finesse and great speed, I skid across the kitchen in my cotton socks, barely avoiding ramming my thighs into the counter. I throw napkins behind me before throwing myself to the ground to wipe up the mess.
We fork either side of the turkey, rushing to dump it in yet another pan. Our forks fall through the tender meat, unable to find a firm grasp in the beast. After several attempts, I stab my two-pronged fork into the turkey, finally achieving the desired grip on our kill and carrying it into another pan
. In a last attempt to save the turkey broth, my grandma tips the ripped pan, hoping to dump the contents in another container. The grease chooses another path, coating the counter in, yet another layer of unwanted grease, fat, and broth.
10:15pm: I have never wanted to eat a turkey so much in my life. Broth slimes on our hands as we funnel the leftover broth into a grease cup. The funnel clogged several times with an invisible fat, refusing to allow anything through. We gave up on the filter and dumped the fat in with the broth. (Screw it). Now, someone needs to cut it. My dad slices the breast while we clean up the rest of the turkey mess.
10:45pm: My brother decides he wants a turkey leg–forget the white meat. For five minutes, he rips at the leg, but to no avail. The leg holds firmly to its owner in one last attempt to die whole, with every ligament attached. After another battle, the bone is broken from its socket and devoured, part of it by me.
We beat the turkey. We won the day-long battle with the fowl from hell. After a hefty clean-up and a jeer at the dead bird, everyone settles in for the night and slips into a slumber.
I did not put too much thought into this story, mostly because people are talking in the other room and I only have 20 pages left to edit in the Quietus. You could say my mind is in another place. I’m a little distracted. So, moral of the story is, turkeys do not die until they are devoured. They do all they can to avoid being eaten, even after death. I hope you enjoyed the story, even a little, since it was written by less than half a mind. It’s okay, though. My Christmas was quite interesting, I might say, and the story took up a few more words than I intended.
There’s always something going on. Hope everyone had a blessed Christmas and I hope your turkeys participated with you. Mine didn’t.
Have a wonderful New Year and soon… eventually…
I’ll see ya!
P.S. Four more days until my New Year’s challenge begins! YES!