We’re hosting Thanksgiving for the first time! How exciting.
Our first arrivals were my mom, sis and kids. They came a day early. The men would arrive on Thanksgiving Day. Based on previous visits, my mom’s rescue dog has earned a reputation as “a runner” among other things. So we learned to leave an opening in the garage for the crew to pull inside. Then we shut the garage door and let everyone inside the house through the connecting side door.
What was easily forgotten was that the poor dog had been traveling for hours. Coming straight into the house among the happy greetings and hugs between family members who have not seen each other in months, he instinctively headed for the back door. But nobody noticed. Then, he apparently decided that the large green cloth chair would suffice to do his business.
He’s a big dog and he took a big leak down the side of the chair and then shifted to thoroughly saturate the carpet – of course missing the adjacent tile floor by mere inches.
After supper, my sister had pies to cook. Don’t ask me why but something went terribly wrong!
After my little sis bellowed – “OH NO!” – we all came running to find the oven caked in hardened pie remains.
Good grief what a mess it was! So we figured we’d just set the oven to self-clean and let it do its thing overnight.
In the morning, the oven was long cooled down but the damn door wouldn’t open. There was a 20+ pound turkey to cook! We burned up Google for a solution but no matter what we tried, it wouldn’t work.
I looked at the time. I glanced out the window at the patio. I looked at the time again.
“Let’s just grill this bird!” I yelled.
People looked at me like I was crazy – as they often do.
I sprang to action and grabbed the propane tank to get it filled. I just knew that if I didn’t, it would probably run out half way through cooking. Besides, my Google solution for grilling a turkey said I needed indirect heat so I needed a cooking sheet that would fit. I found an aluminum solution at the hardware store while I waited for the tank.
When I returned home, I fired up the grill. Within a minute my aluminum solution caught fire. I cleaned up that mess and zipped to the grocery store and back with a commercial grade baking pan. I slipped it under the grate. Perfect fit.
My dad and brother-in-law arrived about an hour and several beers into my roast.
“What are you doing?” They asked.
“Barbecuing turkey,” I smiled casually with a slight buzz.
Their jaws drop and eyes grow wide in disbelief.
“This is going to be a bust of a meal,” I could read them saying in their minds.
I weathered the cold, tending to the manual temperature controls toggling around 325 degrees for hours. Sometimes the temperature reached about 350 degrees and at others it went down to 300 but I managed to keep it as steady as the pouring beer.
I couldn’t jeopardize the temperature by opening the lid. I had to wait for the halfway point to finally get a glimpse of what was happening inside.
That’s when I flipped the bird.
It looked pretty darn good but my dad and I both suspected looks could be deceiving. It might be one raw mess deep in that meat.
I kept at the controls catching parts of the football game while fetching sanity refills.
On one trip to the kitchen, tensions grew and some stereotypical sibling squabbling exchanged between my sister and me. Others joined in. Oh, this was going to be a Thanksgiving to remember.
I huffed off to my patio retreat and she to the stove top where her pie disaster from the night before stayed locked inside the oven below except for its warming aroma wafting in the air as the burners heated up the side dishes.
Then came the moment of truth. I shoved a thermometer inside a breast. Then I took the turkey inside for my brother-in-law to carve. At this point, nobody trusted me with sharp objects.
My brother-in-law’s heart sunk because he couldn’t get the carving knife through the bird. He was afraid to say anything. He just stared wondering how he’d break the bad news. When he looked down again, he realized the thing was upside down.
We sat around the table – everyone silently praying for a meal that would at least not send us all to the Emergency Room.
One by one, noises of pleasure were passed around the table.
And it was a Happy Thanksgiving!
By Frank Rocco Satullo, author of “HERE I THOUGHT I WAS NORMAL: Micro Memoirs of Mischief and editor of OhioTraveler.com