Happy Turkey Day

Jake and Lambchop's happiest holiday ever

Warning: if you’re not a fan of dogs doing naughty things while their humans look on dotingly, turn away now. I understand. And I also apologize if it bothers you: and confess, I am a bit indulgent when it comes to my doggies. Likely many of you won’t think their antics as adorable and lovable as I do. So, I promise: next week’s newsletter will not mention D O Gs at all.

But if you’re up for a gratuitous photo of doggie indulgence: Happy Turkey Day.

This time of year, throughout The United States (or in the homes of Americans abroad), its all about Thanksgiving: whether in print publications or online, television, radio, social media, supermarkets, farmers markets, telephone networks: its getting exciting.

And though its origins are conflicting, the national celebration is rooted in European colonizing, its also rooted in the indiginous tribes saving these poor souls by teaching them what grows locally and how to eat it. I once visited the Plimouth Plantation (scene of “the original Thanksgiving”) this time of year, and along with European history actors describing how they cooked and ate, the resident tribe gave us a presentation of what the original pilgrims probably ate that year when they nearly starved to death, but thanks to the tribe, survived. [Just a note: likely the “first thanksgiving” was not turkey but rather, lobster or mussels—shellfish was abundant. Also: maybe popcorn? And while pies weren’t made of local products after several years the settlers began importing flour and butter, and the tribe grew to love the pies. According to our hosts, they still do).

In our time, in our place USA, centuries later, Thanksgiving is often the one time of year that “the whole family” gets together; students home from university, grown up children returning to the table with their own children, sisters and brothers in law with cousins, stray aunts and uncles, blood-related or not. For many of us, its like one big family reunion.

Not everyone is thrilled with those they are giving thanks with, yet each year they show up, to keep family peace. Some look forward to the gathering as an opportunity to argue with each other—usually with the same people they argued with at the festivities last year. For the arguers, this too is tradition. For some, the right familial argument is tastier than Auntie Mildred’s eggplant salad or Estelle’s Jello Mould.

Oh, the stories I could tell you, though I won’t. At least not this time. To be honest: they kinda break my heart just thinking about them. And I don’t want you to think I’m begging for attention, or an unappreciative guest. In any event, the annual gathering tradition might be a blessing or it might be a curse; either way, the centerpiece is turkey.

A gorgeous turkey takes planning. Where should we order it from? The year my daughter roasted the turkey her concern was what kind of life (only the happiest) and death (only the easiest) it had had. I heartily concur. The next question (beside will it fit in our oven) is how shall we cook it: I would say—from a vantage point of many years in exile, that each family’s heritage flavours perfume their turkey (and stuffing): Indiginous, Mexican, Peruvian, Regional Chinese, Middle Eastern, Taiwanese, Korean, Vietnamese, Philippino, Italian, Puerto Rican, Persian, so many flavours of the nation, and a lovely big bland bird to embrace them all! One year I visited a local Hmong restaurant kitchen in October and our subsequent Thanksgiving turkey ended up perfumed with Hmong ingredients.

Setting the table is part of the fun. Some have traditional decor that they bring out each year —my favourite though is gathering autumnal dried leaves of many colours, from the ground and using them to decorate the table. One year, though, in Liverpool when my daughter and I were gathering fallen leaves, a very suspicious lady called the cops on us, and next thing we knew the bobby on the beat was giving us a strict warning to not take things that weren’t ours. Lucky I already had a nice stash of dry leaves in my green polkadot handbag, which happily, the cop didn’t search.

Back to the menu, many of the dishes served are traditional side dishes, usually saved for this one day of the year. The sides define each family’s feast: a big pile of stuffing, a sauce made of cranberries, and/or the dubious charms of roast yams with marshmallows, fruity jelly mould, the infamous green bean casserole. And don’t forget African-American Thanksgiving macaroni and cheese, along with the ham that joins the turkey in the place of importance.

Some make everything the same year to year, others make everything new; many (myself included) do a combination: the nostalgic, traditional flavours for about half the menu, new discoveries for the other half. The turkey stands alone, majestically; well, along with its gravy. Besides this, every and anything else goes.

But could it be possible that the turkey no longer holds quite the place it once did? Maybe. And maybe not. While social and print media is nattering away about the uselessness of turkey when you have all the sides, I remain a turkey lover: its something of the ceremony, the whole bird; maybe even primitive. And I think its so much a part of the holiday menu that even vegetarians would miss the place the turkey has on the table (I’ve seen vegetarians sculpt a turkey out of bits and pieces, nuts and tofu and other vegetable proteins then roast it like its a bird). (a vegetarian gravy is easy to do and seems to make everything it touches taste like turkey if you flavour it with sage.)

Some just don’t like turkey. “Its not my favourite roast” “so dry” “too bland”. And thats okay, there is lasagne, or chicken, squab, a whole big fish. In San Francisco the possibility that crab may be in season for the feast is pretty thrilling, but in my observations, crab-lovers want turkey too. In fact, I think there is more at play here: maybe turkey-haters simply dont want to follow the tradional crowd? Maybe they have only been faced with an overcooked dry bird and dont realize how succulent a turkey can be?

But let me say that despite having many weird and sad emotional memories of family Thanksgivings past, I have no ambivilence about turkey. I love turkey. Roasted to a burnished brown, with crispy skin, and wings to hold on to with your hands and gnaw on pleasurably.

But the Thanksgiving turkey memory that gives me full and utter joy, is the year that most would think an utter catastrophe.

I had set the roasted turkey straight from the oven, to rest from its roasting, on the settee. Then I turned my attentions to the sides: was the gravy thickening properly, the stuffing crisping up well, shall I mash the potatoes now?

Before you look at the photos below, most of you will be relieved that we had no guests for Thanksgiving that year, which is fine, because its not an easy holiday to celebrate in the UK: the annointed Thursday is an ordinary day of the week, ie, a school night, and not a national fete.

So get ready: when my back was turned: this happened (now is the time for the dog squeamish to definately look away).

They were, at that minute, the happiest doggies in the world.

Luckily I returned in time to rescue Jake and Lambchop from the danger of cooked bones and too much fatty skin. But oh, it was a night to remember for them. And even though I love turkey, and was looking forward to that whole big bird and leftovers for days, I’ve never been happier myself than seeing them enjoying their beyond happy dream.

Looking back, several years later, with little Jake no longer on this planet and little Lambchop suffering from diabetes (and so, a restricted diet), this turkey feast is memory only, and makes me so happy we could provide them with this joy. Thankfully with no guests, there was no one to spoil the night by claiming the turkey was ruined and who could eat it now? [We did; we ate the turkey after Jake and Chops had their way with it]. I know I’ll never leave a roast turkey unattended again in a home with terriers on the prowl, but after seeing them so happy, the turkey on our own plates tasted even more delicious.

Watching them after their meal, as we were just starting ours: they were curled up, snoring happily, with—is it possible?—sage-scented smiles on their little faces.

And I thought: instead of being ruined, the turkey that night and its ensuing adventure, was truly something to give thanks for.