Luisa D’Amato

Luisa is a longtime columnist for the Waterloo Region Record. She writes a column on issues, frequently controversial ones that affect our daily lives in this community.

At the time of this story, my family was living in a little town south of London, England. My father’s work had taken us there from our home in New York City.

As an Italian, dad loved to cook and was always trying new recipes — Christmas included. I remember once we had a “Dickensian” Christmas meal with oyster pie; another meal had a Swedish theme of pork tenderloin stuffed with prunes. Neither were hits, let me tell you.

One dish we never had was turkey. My mother hated turkey; my Dad hated cooking turkey. But one year, someone gave us a Christmas bird and I guess they decided we should show our gratitude and eat it.

My sister put the turkey in the oven; Mom basted it mid-morning — or so she said. But when the time came to take it out of the oven, the bird and the pan it rested in had vanished. Had someone come into our kitchen and spirited the bird away? It was a mystery.

A couple of days later a smell started to come from an upper kitchen cupboard. Somebody climbed a step stool and opened the door. And there was the turkey, still in the roaster.

It seems that my mother had hidden it there, then blotted the deed from her memory banks. A practising psychologist, she reasoned that because she hated turkey, her sub-conscious mind had hidden the bird so she wouldn’t have to eat it.

The fact that mom had previously downed several gin and tonics gave insight into the Christmas of the Disappearing Turkey.