Turkey Tales

Ok. So, recently you heard me toot my own horn about being on top of my game (figured out how to upload vdo). Well, yesterday I completely dropped the ball (got to get in as many idioms as possible, as my peeps here just don't get it).

I invite TWELVE people for Christmas dinner. We have exactly ONE small toaster oven, ONE wok burner, and .... well, that's about it. What the hell was I thinking! I wasn't, clearly. And, it didn't hit me (hard) until 2 pm, with everyone due to arrive at 4 pm. Even with the Thai total disregard for clock-time, I suddenly realized I was up the proverbial creek. Luckily, I had two paddles - my dear sister-in-law Nok and my equally dear friend Nong. They stepped up the usual Thai-mindfulness-pace and chopped the vegetables, arranged the flowers, and set the table (well, floor actually) in record time. My (dear) husband just kept saying - why didn't we do this yesterday? Good question. Particularly for a Thai person who never plans ahead. (It seems to be catching.)

Anyway, it all came off beautifully. With not a grain of rice in sight, my Thai family and friends cheerfully ate Waldorf salad, duck with cranberry-orange glaze, mashed potatoes (with a precious dollop of sour cream!), and carrot salad. A word on the carrot salad. We have here the most gorgeous fresh coconut and pineapple. Wow, what a carrot salad. We even had a respectable (bakery-made) apple pie for dessert. It was lovely, as you can see. (If you want to see more, click the More Pam's Pix link in a day or so.)


All of this holiday food wrangling reminded me of another story that I gave my family a couple of Thanksgivings ago. It's a turkey tale, and in my family turkey makes an appearance at both Thanksgiving and Christmas (when you've just barely choked down the last of the Thanksgiving leftovers). So, having made in through another Christmas weekend, I offer you a little tale about holidays past. Make that holiday repasts.

. . . . .

I love my family, but they are terrible cooks, every last one of them. And, their attention for dinner conversation is short. Holidays at home are always buffet served on Corelle from the Formica island in my aunt’s kitchen. The eating, because it is eating, rather than dining, is dispatched with quickly, so the day is mostly cooking and cleaning up with big doses of t.v. for added distraction.

Don’t get me wrong. I love my people. I love that total lack of pretension. Actually it is distain for pretension. And, I love the card games after dinner. Was a time that cards also meant cigarettes and whiskey, but those days are gone. Now it’s just cards. Competitive, chicks-only cards at the kitchen table. The young men sometimes get suckered into a hand or two, but the old guys know better.

I do have vivid memories of my grandmother preparing the Thanksgiving turkeys. The night before, a big store-bought frozen bird would get set down into the scrubbed stainless steel sink for an over-night soak. In the morning, early, the stuffing preparation would begin; because it takes all day to cook a turkey until the meat has fallen-off-the-bone, my grandmother’s doneness standard. I should clarify. Fallen-off-the-bone means, in fact, meat desiccated to the point that it shrinks away from the bones under a layer of whisper-thin, cracked skin. This solves any problem of the bacteria brewed in the over-night bath.

Stuffing pre-preparation actually began a week or so before, with the drying out of the bread. Sun Beam Bread set around on baking sheets and air-dried until slightly curled. You see, there was a desiccation theme. First thing Thanksgiving morning the cast aluminum meat grinder came out of its cardboard box and got clamped to the kitchen table. A big mixing bowl was set under it, and the bread and a couple of peeled raw onions brought to the table. And, now the fun part. In rapt attention with my nose right at the edge of the mixing bowl, I watched my grandmother turn dry bread into bread dust moistened with essence of ground onion. There was a fear factor which held my fascination. I’m sure I was warned against fingers in the hopper, yet she pushed and poked that dry bread and those wet onions dangerously close, it seemed to me, to that grinding mechanism. Sometimes I would turn the handle for her, and I loved the sound of the meat grinder chewing up that dusty bread. You could almost feel it scratching the back of your throat.

For flavor, my grandmother would sprinkle her stuffing dust sparingly with Bell’s Poultry Seasoning, the little yellow box with the turkey on the front. And, then the most graphic part of all. The bird was lifted from its bath, and with the back of a big spoon, my grandmother packed that stuffing dust into that bird, and I mean packed. Packed so tight, that many hours later at the table, she had to shave that stuffing out of that bird the way you shave hard ice cream out of its tub.

It was never my favorite part of dinner, the stuffing; but I loved to watch her make it. So, this year, as I plump organic raisins in Spanish port before making my dried fig and cranberry compote, I’ll remember all the wonderful lessons about the pitfalls of pretension that I learned from my family.

A Christmas Story

I wrote this story for my brothers two Christmasses ago, and I thought I should "re-gift" it this year. Since writing it, Santa has come back into my life after a long hiatus. We're busy making happy Christmas memories for our little guy, and though he won't remember his first Christmas, we will always.

P.S. Aunt Kappi Rocks! The Santa suit (with real plush velour) is to die for!


I am the oldest of three, and so I was the first to come to doubt Santa. But, I do remember the last Christmas that I wanted to believe, and so do my brothers, even now.

In our family, we had a tradition. Christmas eve dinner at the living room coffee table featuring Mom’s once-a-year seafood casserole. Pretty simple really; mayonnaise, heavy cream, buttered bread cubes, chopped boiled eggs, a can of crabmeat, and a fist full of frozen shrimp (we are WASP's, obviously). And, she sprinkled the top with more bread cubes and melted butter, before putting it into the oven (I know, but it was the '70's). We loved it. And, there were side dishes. Chex party mix, chips and dip, popcorn balls, and homemade cookies with M & M stains baked into the dough. Actually, I remember feeling like throwing up on more than a few Christmasses, but I never put it to the Christmas eve dinner (not 'til now, anyway).

Mom was great with decorations too, which went up the day after Thanksgiving. Lots of “arrangements” on all available horizontal surfaces. She got the lingo from selling Home Interiors, Italian baroque injection-molded plastic items (which they cleverly called "syrocco"). She peddled the stuff at home parties (again, it was the '70's). The Christmas “arrangements” consisted of ceramic dancing angel trios balancing votive cups improbably on their heads, plastic mini-garlands wrapped around pillar candles, and tiny (empty) wrapped packages set (precisely) at random among more plastic garland. But, our three Christmas stockings were never part of the "arrangements." They were always held in reserve until Christmas eve.

After dinner, we were allowed to open one present. This was the second part of the tradition. It was always new pajamas. We ripped them open, and then put them on. They were a little scratchy, having come directly from the plastic packaging, but that was just part of the deal. After the ritual pajama opening, it was time to hang the stockings, the third part of the tradition. As the evening drew to a close, we each strategically placed our stockings for maximum impact. And, I gave mine an extra tug, to be sure the weight of the goods wouldn’t pull it to the floor.

Santa was very clever with our stockings. I noticed some kids at school got socks and soap in theirs. Filler. Ours were filled with precious little treasures, and none of them were ever wrapped. He seemed to wrap some kid’s gifts, which initially puzzled me. In our house there was a clear demarcation. Santa’s booty was unwrapped. Mom and Dad’s was wrapped, labeled, and bowed.

By the time I was ten, my brothers were seven and four. That winter at school, I couldn’t avoid hearing that Santa was a scam, and I could see it was probably true. I didn’t let on to my mother, thinking it would only disappoint her, and why interrupt the flow of gifts at this juncture? So, that year after hanging our stockings, we all went off to bed a little on the early side, as usual. In the middle of the night, I woke up and decided to get my brothers up too. I wanted them and all their tingling excitement in my room with me on this last Christmas, when I would rather have believed.

On our way back to my room, one of my brothers whispered, “Do you think he came yet?” We tiptoed to the top of the stairs leading down to the family room (yes, a split-level, I repeat - it was the '70's). The house was dark, and I opened my eyes wide and stared into the black. It was then I saw it. And, they did too at the exact same moment. We bolted to my bedroom without a word. When we were out of earshot of the family room, I asked, “Did you see it? Santa’s hat?” The white pompom on his red hat floated through the deep darkness of the basement family room as clear as day. And, we had all seen it. We lay there in agony, not sure if he had seen us and decided to skip us over that year.

With much debate, we realized we had no choice but to wait until morning. After fitful sleep, mercifully morning came. We got Mom and Dad up at about five (another tradition) and headed for the family room. He had come, and he had left us his beautiful unwrapped booty.

Santa made many more visits to our house, before my youngest brother gave up believing; but none of those visits would ever be as sweet to me or my brothers as the year we saw Santa Claus.