Leftovers Give A Tasty Lesson In Perseverance

Sun., Dec. 10, 2000

Marny Lombard The Spokesman-Rev

Our Thanksgiving was wonderful this year. Relatives flew in from California. The turkey was moist, the conversation strong, the spirit of joy tangible. We had much to be thankful for.

But for me, the high point of Thanksgiving emerged later. Odd as they sound, here are the circumstances that set the stage: My son’s progress report came home from school, and we were four days into turkey leftovers.

Turkey sandwiches had lost their thrill. Turkey soup seemed premature. What to do for dinner?

Turkey a la king, my sweetheart suggested. I’m not a casserole cook, I protest.

It’s easy, my sweetheart urges. He’s remembering his grandma’s turkey a la king.

This gives me palpitations. My sweetheart was born in Butte, Mont. His grandma fed 40 ranch hands, and she did it on a wood cook stove.

I quail at the thought. Can I keep up with memories like these?

Pathetic, isn’t it? Oh, I can do nice things with shrimp and garlic, or pasta and pesto. But I never learned to cook properly. In my 20s, when it dawned on me that I was missing some culinary basics, my brother explained it this way:

He was home most afternoons, gleaning kitchen lore from our mother. It worked. He’s the main reason our Thanksgiving was so good this year.

But I was always late to dinner, my brother points out. It’s true. I routinely filled my afternoons with horseback riding, and careened home just in time for dinner.

All right, back to turkey leftovers. I huffed, I puffed, and I broke out my “Joy of Cooking.”

My sweetheart snorted. How could I need a cookbook to do something as basic as turkey a la king?

This is, you see, a cultural divide. Massachusetts on one side, Montana on the other.

I, daughter of Emerson and Thoreau, was tempered as a lass by the waters of Walden Pond. He, son of the Big Sky, underwent formative teenage experiences in his Jeep on the hillsides surrounding Missoula.

All this culture stuff aside, I was not going to let a little turkey a la king come between us.

My best friend chimed in from Florida via e-mail: Don’t forget the sherry.

My sweetheart: The best turkey a la king is served over hot baking powder biscuits.

Me (to myself): Criminy, I’ve never made baking powder biscuits either. Can’t I bag this whole thing and get away with clam linguini?

Nope, I decide. I can’t avoid this. I have a flash of faith. A friend gave my son a children’s cookbook a few years ago. He’s not turned into a chef, but I think I remember a baking powder biscuit recipe.

Well, you know where we’re going from here. I turned out a sublime turkey a la king.

As we ate, tendrils of memory floated to life. Yes, I do remember my mom’s chicken a la king, served on those wonderfully flaky pastry shells. I am quite small in this memory, I think she moved on to more sophisticated foods. Now, I’m unsure of her wisdom.

My sweetheart had seconds and offered to dig through his treasures and see if he could find his grandma’s biscuit cutter.

Dinner over, it was time to review my son’s progress report.

He is undergoing his first experience with letter grades. He’s doing well. There are a few blips, but mostly this progress report shows grades to be proud of.

But what’s this? An F? The teacher, bless his backbone, hadn’t hesitated to award an F, if that’s what was called for. Thank heavens, this report included enough detail so that we could see just which project was left undone.

As I did the dishes, I listened to earnest conversation between my son and my sweetheart about how this disaster could be changed to a B or an A.

I wondered if my son might one day stumble across a faint memory, linking the mingled flavors of turkey a la king, with the satisfactions of good marks, well-earned praise and a plan for resurrecting that one last grade. For me, turkey a la king will always stand for having the guts to try something new.

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