Nothing Like Home Cooking

Don’t get me wrong. I love my mom, but the woman can’t roast a turkey.

I’m really not sure what she does to it. It’s like our Thanksgiving turkey frolicked in the harsh Arizona desert without sunscreen all summer long before the folks at Butterball caught up with him.

Last Thanksgiving, at half time when my mom was out of earshot, my siblings and I congregated around the cheese ball to discuss the impending meal.

“I think Mom has picked a turkey with a defective button 10 years in a row,” I announced.

“Doesn’t she realize it’s dry?” my brother asked.

“No,” my sister told him, staring at me, “because every year, someone tells her how great the turkey was.”

“We can’t hurt her feelings,” I said, admitting I was the culprit.

“True, but can’t we focus on something else?”

“Like what?”

“How about the cranberries?”

“They’re from a can,” I explained. “Maybe you’d like me to tell her how great the stick of butter was. `Boy, Mom, the butter really made the meal. Was that the expensive kind?’ “

I looked at my sister. “I’m sure that would make up for the entire table hacking out petrified turkey meat into their napkins.”

“Well,” my brother interjected, “maybe one of us should volunteer to help out in the kitchen?”

“I tried that,” I explained. “I called Mom yesterday and asked her if she needed me to come over and baste for her.”

“What did she say?”

“She asked me why I would want to do that,” I answered. “I told her that putting on a Thanksgiving dinner is a lot of work. So, she told me if I wanted to be helpful, I could rake her front lawn.”

“You did a nice job.”

We were all quiet for a few moments, and then my sister’s face brightened.

“Maybe we should establish a patrol,” she announced. “You know, take turns opening the oven and basting the turkey.”

“What’s Mom going to say?” I asked.

“She won’t know,” she answered. “We’ll grab a couple cans of chicken soup from the pantry, a couple turkey basters, and whenever Mom leaves the room, we’ll take turns opening the oven really fast and squirting the bird.”

It was a great plan, and everyone was feeling much better, until it was my brother’s turn, and he forgot Mom had double ovens. He squirted chicken noodle soup on the sweet potatoes.

We gave up after that and fought over who got to have the dog under their chair at dinner.

And so the cycle continued with a dry bird, and once again, I made my usual statement: “Great turkey, Mom.”

My sister kicked me as I bussed dishes to the kitchen. Of course, later that night, as I was putting my kids to bed, I felt bad about missing the point of Thanksgiving.

I am thankful to have my mom, regardless of her inability to roast a turkey. After all, Thanksgiving is about appreciation and tradition.

So I reconfirmed these values with my children and explained how lucky we were to have a great grandma. As I was leaving my son’s room, however, I noticed he was chewing gum, and I told him to spit it out.

“It’s not gum,” he argued. “It’s Grandma’s turkey. The more I chew it, the bigger the wad gets!”

I wonder if Miles Standish had this problem?