There is much debate about what warrants a position on the Thanksgiving table. I have a highly unpopular view in my family that if all the dishes we prepared at Thanksgiving were really that good, we would eat them throughout the year. I’ve never been sitting in my office thinking, “Boy, I hope Angela has made a green bean casserole for supper.” Green bean casserole is one of those things you tolerate (notice I didn’t say like) or you don’t. Thanksgiving dishes can split otherwise decent people into hardened factions. Cranberry sauce either consists of fresh cranberries cooked down in a mound of sugar, water, and a touch of orange juice, or it comes in a can and makes a sucking noise as it flops out. There is a whole generation of people who were raised believing that cranberry sauce came with ridges. Pick your side, but do so carefully because whatever you choose will be served from now until your last Thanksgiving. Dressing is also up for debate. Does it have stuff in it…like oysters, for instance? Does it have sage in it? Does it have ground sausage in it? These are all things that need to be discussed with your preacher prior to your wedding.
The one thing that seems to cause less debate is turkey. Now I’ve heard some heathens don’t do turkey at Thanksgiving. Turkey is passed over for substitutes. Never trust a man who eats lasagna on Thanksgiving. That’s the kind of behavior that makes old church ladies whisper during the invitation hymn. Some people are intimidated by the process of cooking a turkey and will say that it’s too much trouble. That’s the kind of laziness that should cause concern for the future of our nation. Now I’m not saying that you have to cook a turkey on Thanksgiving. You don’t have to wear shoes to a funeral either. Just know that neglecting either will cause people to talk.
When I was a kid, my mother and later my brother were in charge of cooking the turkey. My job was to sit and watch the little red thing pop up when it was done. I took this job seriously and probably added to the cooking time by constantly opening the door to check and see if we had a pop-up yet. To me, it ranked right up there with watching the TV and seeing the ball fall on New Year’s Eve.
I also remember a Thanksgiving where, after resting a moment after eating, my brother Bob decided it was as good a time as any to make a new door between rooms. Saws came out, and construction commenced. Most families watch football on Thanksgiving. We altered load-bearing walls. That’s probably better left to another story.
Somehow, as an adult, I have assumed the role of chief turkey cook in our home. I’m not sure exactly how this happened. But I do remember vividly the first turkey I cooked for Thanksgiving. Like my family growing up, Thanksgiving was big in Angela’s family as well. On the occasion of my first turkey cooking, we gathered at her grandmother’s house, Mrs. Sybil. Just a heads up here, when you want someone to cook something they have never cooked before, you might want to not have them do it on Thanksgiving, with the centerpiece of the meal.
Mrs. Sybil was a special lady. When I came to know her, she was older and bent over from age. But I remember that at her house, she was always humming or singing hymns under her breath. And she always bobbed her foot up and down to keep time with the song that only she could hear. She was the first person I told of my intentions to ask Angela to marry me. She was so happy. Partly because her granddaughter was getting married, but also because she knew something that no one else knew yet.
On that first Thanksgiving turkey test, I had done my homework. I had researched the art of turkey preparation. I assembled all the ingredients, picked out a sturdy pan, had my turkey roasting bag, and was ready to cook. I even had a turkey that had the little red pop-up timer. What could go wrong? Overconfidence is dangerous around a hot stove and family. I removed the neck from the cavity and filled it with all the things I remember seeing in our turkeys growing up…butter, chunks of onion, oranges, garlic, and spices. I also had a pot on the stove with orange juice, butter, and spices that I used to baste the turkey every 30 minutes.
When the popper popped…it looked good. It smelled good. I was pleased. As I was beginning to take it from the pan to a platter, Mrs. Sybil quietly pointed out something that saved me. On the other end of the turkey, the…well, you know…was a little white bag of something. I didn’t know about this bag. When I pulled the neck out of the cavity, I assumed that was all the “parts.” I didn’t know that the modern-day turkey was prepped like an Egyptian mummy. Apparently, Butterball believes a turkey ought to enter eternity with all its belongings. There isn’t a more embarrassing thing to do than to take a set of tongs and extract a hot bag of turkey organs before serving your family.
That Thanksgiving taught me a couple of lessons. There was a practical lesson I learned: always look at both ends of the turkey before beginning the cooking process. There was also a lesson buried in my faux pas. I learned that the event was more important than the actual food itself. Most people can’t remember a single Thanksgiving menu from ten years ago, but they can remember who sat at the table. I remember those Thanksgivings with my family and now Angela’s family, but I really don’t remember any special dish. I remember watching for the timer to pop up. I remember tearing out a wall, just cause. I remember the look on Angela’s grandmother’s face when she saw the edges of that little white bag sticking out of a freshly cooked turkey. Thanksgiving, even if you eat cranberry sauce that makes a sucking sound when it slides out of the can, is really about family, kids’ tables, stories, and remembering who’s missing from the table.
Editor’s Note: This story is adapted from my upcoming book, A Taste From My Past, a collection of stories about family, faith, laughter, tears, and food growing up here along the Mississippi Gulf Coast.
Scott Sullivan 
Leave a comment