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never bite the hand that rubs your turkey's butt for you
Sometimes, I like to think of this site as a type of karmic balance. In hopes that I can live a less static-y mental existence, I tell you the exceptionally delicious, the sad-but-true, and the bitter awful worst, send it off into the digital world, and move on with my life. The following story is from the latter category.
My family gets as excited about Thanksgiving as the goyim do about Christmas. Each year is a virtual pile-on of cousins from all over the country for a long weekend of catching up, endless amounts of Turkey consumption and promises to eat all the leftovers only to cave and instead order pizza. We even have a Turkey of the Year Award, voted on by secret ballot. (Make fun of my peeps EVEN ONCE and prepare to feel my wrath.) However, as the young’uns become the grown-ups all over again, every year we have increased questions of attendance: Is this Deb’s year to eat with her boyfriend, or us? How about Evan and his wife?
Two years ago, I made the dreadful mistake of deciding with a long-term boyfriend that we would eat with his family that year, and mine the next. With a heavy heart, I called my cousins to tell them I’d try to stop by on Friday, but that I’d miss the big event. I was told that I’d be sorely missed, and asked about the specifics of my plans, at which point I realized – did we have any?
Turns out the Then Boyfriends (TB) evil parents, who never liked having company at their house and who had virtually no family outside their overly doted on son, had decided that we would have dinner at the TB’s apartment in southern Brooklyn. Who would cook the turkey? “Oh, you don’t mind, do you Deb?”
Well actually, as a vegetarian of thirteen years, I did. But, oh! the things we do in the name of love and feeble attempts to impress people who will never like us back! The TB and I hauled three bags of groceries and a moderate-sized turkey (because just the breast would have never been good enough for three people, oh no…) through the hour-long subway ride with transfers early that morning. Being the same food snob that I am today, I had spent the prior week absorbing as many Food Network Thanksgiving shows as I possible could, and came armed with fresh herbs, spices, and delicious ideas. Around noon, I was rubbing the spices into the nasty parts of the turkey with my bare hands when his parents burst through the door. With bags of groceries. And a raw turkey. His mother barely said hello before to me before she walked over to the turkey, complaining, “you forgot to take the skin off! It’s too fattening!” and began to yank violently – with her bare, unwashed hands – the skin from the turkey that I had been rubbing with spices into for fifteen minutes. This ought to have me my cue to reach for the Wild Turkey, but I persevered as only a girl blindly in love could.
These are the things I cooked that day:
- Roasted chestnut stuffing.
- Baby field green salad with goat cheese, roasted apples, and cider vinaigrette.
- Gravy.
- Halved new potatoes, sweet potatoes, and shallots with thyme and sage in the roasting pan underneath the turkey.
- A pumpkin AND an apple pie.
- A skinless, dry turkey.
From his parents, this is the feedback I received:
- “Oh, we don’t like to eat nuts. They’re too fattening.”
- “We just like iceberg lettuce with ranch dressing.”
- “We like it lumpier.”
- “We don’t like herbs. Just baked potatoes.”
- “You made” [gobble] “too much dessert.” [gobble] “I’m not supposed to be” [gobble] “…eating this.”
- “This is delicious.”
These are the things we talked about at dinner:
- Their poor health.
- Their wonderful son.
- Their wonderful son.
- Their high blood pressure.
- How wonderful their son is.
I had sworn up and down to myself (and promised my mother) that after cooking such a feast, I would not go near the dishes. They could rot for weeks, hell, it wasn’t my apartment, but, unable handle even another second of how weird my cooking was, how near death they were and should be pitied, and how fabulous my boyfriend was, I darted to the kitchen and began scrubbing. Anything. Did anyone stop me?
I can’t believe you would even ask.
The best thing that came out of that dinner was that, either as an apology or a thank you, I can’t remember, the TB took me to Tabla that weekend, my very first time, and it immediately became my favorite place to eat, and frankly, never shut up about. The worst thing that came out of that dinner was that I dated the TB – and vicariously, his family – for another six months. I was never once invited to their house for dinner, but it’s just as well as I hear she was an awful cook. (Oh, please – I’m owed at least one cheap jab, aren’t I?)
Seeing as it’s Thanksgiving and all, I suppose this story deserves a moral. It is not, though, “God, Deb was such a tool back then!” or “Never rub a turkey’s butt for ungrateful mouths,” but more like: “Mothers, be nice to your son’s girlfriends because you never know when they may use their well-trafficked website as a form of ‘karmic balance.’”
comments (9)
I'm very lucky in that I'm uselss in the kitchen and therefore would never be expected to do such a thing. Also, I am a very stressed-out cook so its never fun unless I'm boiling water for coffee.
Enjoy National Turkey Killer Day!
1 | michael | November 24, 2004 02:06 PM
I amusing to see you mentioned Tabla again.
Did your old boyfriend apologize about his parents? If not, I am sure it contributed to his "ex-ness".
It's taboo for a lot of Indian girls (in the land of liberty and Bush) to even comment to themselves about their mothers-in-law who poke around the kitchen with bare hands, just like she did. And they're of the live-in variety.
Following up on yesterday's boondiraitia-bad news. It's fried. Deep and down in burning oil.
If you're still interested let me know!
2 | Shareen | November 24, 2004 02:23 PM
I hate typos.
I amusing--- It's amusing.
I am a lawyer and I can get fired for it, if someone relevant at work reads the earlier post.
3 | Shareen | November 24, 2004 02:27 PM
happy thanksgiving, deb! and, i can tell you're thankful you don't have to face a turkey day dinner like that again!
4 | sassylittlepunkin | November 24, 2004 03:11 PM
Two Christmases ago, I forsook seeing my little siblings (50 miles away) in order to bow to my TB's parents last-minute, selfish demand that we go to their house (600 miles away). Due to my TB's TOTAL lack of planning, we spend Christmas Eve in an airport rental car office, and Christmas Day in our apartment.
In an odd coincidence, TB & parents made up for it by treating me/us to dinner at a v. good Indian restaurant on Christmas day.
5 | koppar | November 24, 2004 04:03 PM
At least they said their son was wonderful. Mine tell me the food is great even if they hate it, talk about diabetes, and never compliment my wonderful husband who did half the cooking. I don't know where he came from sometimes. Stork?
6 | Theresa | November 24, 2004 08:08 PM
Deb, i have the opposite. I loved his parents and he was the son-of-a-bitch. I miss them this thanksgiving, although i am australian and dont really get it all. hopefully, my stuffing talents will be appreciated elsewhere.
7 | carolyn | November 24, 2004 09:14 PM
Kind of off topic, but...this is by far the most well written blog I have ever read.
Happy Thanksgiving!
8 | Glenn | November 24, 2004 09:44 PM
That story didn't need a moral -- there's all kinds of morals buried right in it. Things about how people need to be considerate, thoughtful, and appreciative of others. A great Thanksgiving Story that makes me, for one, more thankful for the people in my life that ARE generous and kind. Of course you deserved the right to take a jab -- you deserved the right to take a dozen. I admire your spirit and your fortitude with such a bunch of snots. (whoops, did I say that out loud?)
9 | Roberta S | November 26, 2004 02:55 AM