Turkey goes from the floor to legend
The turkey scene in “A Christmas Story,” the classic holiday comedy set in 1940s Indiana, always reminds me of a Thanksgiving ordeal in my family from the late 1990s.
A pack of dogs didn’t run through the house and devour our turkey, and no one ended up in a Chinese restaurant. But there was a turkey mishap, and a memorable one.
My late brother was hosting Thanksgiving at his house. Folding tables extended from the dining table to the living room.
Everyone would sit together. No separate kids’ table.
My brother and my sister, his biggest partner in mischief, were in the kitchen getting ready to transfer a 25pound-plus turkey from a roasting pan to a serving tray.
I remember it in slow motion, as if every second offered a real
chance of changing the outcome.
Burning-hot juices had dripped on the floor, making it slippery. My brother was struggling to stay upright, slipping back and forth as if teetering atop a seesaw.
Though they tried mightily, tragedy could not be averted.
The cooked-to-perfection turkey fell onto the black-and-white-checkered linoleum. Only a few people were in the kitchen to witness the disaster.
Instantly, we all had the same thought:
No one else has to know. We didn’t account for a nephew, then about 4, who was looking on and excitedly announced, “Uncle Albert dropped the chicken!”
Truth be told, the cussing and laughter would have outed us. The incident would unite us under a now-customary family rule dictating how long you can wait to pick a hot turkey up off the floor: two to four minutes.
It was delicious. This Thanksgiving, I’ll cling to that story and others as I join a small family group for a scaleddown feast with two adorable children, one of whom will have me playing hide-and-seek uncountable times.
It’s going to be a Thanksgiving unlike the others, limited to my “bubble,” a group within or outside a household that’s taking all precautions so its members can interact safely.
Starting in March, the six of us started meeting outdoors. By June, we were indoors. Four adults and two children will gather at a table today that last year hosted three times that many.
We haven’t eliminated all risk but have been vigilant about wearing masks in public and are pretty strict about avoiding all but essential trips. When any of us has gone to a restaurant, and those trips have been few, we’ve sat outdoors.
When we’ve decided to go outside our bubble, we’ve maintained short periods of self-quarantine before resuming contact.
My bubble is the blessing for which I’m most thankful this year. I hope your bubble is safe, too, that you’ve taken precautions against the spread of COVID-19, as cases continue to rise in Bexar County.
It has been painful to be apart; more painful to count losses.
The latest death in the Express-news family was that of former page designer David Holguin. Kind and soft-spoken, he was a consummate professional. A good listener, too. It made sense that he decided to leave the industry and become a counselor.
He moved back to his hometown of El Paso, where trailers have been turned into makeshift morgues for victims of the coronavirus. David was a military and family life counselor, and worked with disabled veterans. Sometime this week, he died of COVID-19.
The empty seats at our tables will never be filled.
When my brother was preparing that fateful Thanksgiving dinner, we knew he was terminally ill. Still, he was upbeat, mindful of making memories for those he’d leave behind.
He was generous beyond measure and had conversations with many of us about not mourning for too long, about living fully, reminding us that we’re all living on borrowed time.
So, that’s what we’ll do today in my little bubble. I’m preparing the cornbread stuffing and mashed potatoes with lots of butter and a dash of Half-and-half.
We’ll decorate a few gingerbread houses and open a bottle of wine. A few of us have been listening to Christmas music, thanks to Q 101.9 FM, which will annoy the others. I’ll be placated when I check in on the news at CNN.
I hope you’re as lucky. I hope you’ve been taking precautions, that you believe the coronavirus is real, and that if you wrongly think it’s a hoax, you get extremely lucky and avoid infection.
I hope that you’ve shared your good fortune with those who have less; that December holidays are followed by vaccines; and that you sit down in front of a turkey that hasn’t suffered any kind of incident on its way to the serving platter.