Every year, the prospect of cooking a turkey fills me with dread. The mere act of purchasing a turkey finds me paralyzed in front of the supermarket turkey collection like a deer in the headlights. I try thinking of the turkey as just a big chicken, but year after year, the thought of cooking the Thanksgiving turkey assumes mythic proportions.
The fact that I have successfully produced a properly cooked Thanksgiving turkey for thirty years does not convince me that I won’t fail miserably this year. I have nightmares about roasting the turkey for hours with hungry, expectant guests seated at the table in a Norman Rockwell tableau, only to discover that it’s still raw at meal time. I have visions of my guests being admitted to the hospital with salmonella poisoning. I pore over cookbooks, surf Internet recipe sites, clip turkey-cooking tips from the newspaper, and keep the turkey hotline number near at hand.
We learn about the Pilgrims and Squanto in elementary school, but no one warns us that Thanksgiving is sure to expose family pathology. I worry if it will offend my sister who married Dizzy the Clown (no, he’s a real clown) if I tell her I don’t want the dinner devolving into a circus. In years past, I worried whether my irreverent father would start eating before everyone was seated, and if my husband’s 97-year-old Bulgarian grandmother would refer to any ethnic group as peasants. Will my mother feel unloved if I ask her not to bring sweet potatoes with little marshmallows?
My turkey-cooking performance anxiety is accentuated because every year we invite foreign graduate students to share this most American of repasts with our family. My angst is therefore heightened by the thought that world opinion of the United States might somehow be influenced by the success or failure of my turkey.
Our sons are always anxious to learn who will be joining us for Thanksgiving. One year we had our “Axis” Thanksgiving, with guests from Germany, Italy, and Japan. When we shared our repast with a Serb, I didn’t invite my Bosnian friend who had been granted political asylum in the United States. When Arnaud from France joined us in 2003, Freedom Fries were not on the menu. This year, I hope none of our foreign guests asks us to explain how Donald Trump was elected president.
One year our guests were a New Zealander and his Chinese girlfriend. I’m always concerned when we invite Asians because despite the fact they might happily consume jellyfish and ancient bird nests, I’ve never come across turkey teriakyi or General Tso’s turkey. I just tell them that turkey tastes like chicken --- a big, probably too dry, too tough, tryptophan-laced, coma-inducing chicken.
One year our sons listened with rapt attention to an imposing Sikh guest who explained that his turban held his hair that had never been cut. He was looking forward to the day his parents would arrange his marriage. And oops(!), he was a vegetarian. Fortunately, there was plenty of string bean casserole — and sweet potatoes with little marshmallows.
Somehow, each year, I rise above my turkey-cooking phobia. My husband gives a little speech about being thankful and we say a prayer for those less fortunate and for world peace. Our guests are suitably impressed when the bird is presented. I hold my breath as my husband wields the carving knife and breath a sigh of relief when the juices run clear.
Later, after the last of the pumpkin pie and whipped cream is consumed and we bid our guests adieu or sayonara or auf wiedersehen or do videnja or zai jian, I’ll reconnoiter with the turkey carcass in the privacy of the kitchen. I’ll notice that there aren’t many leftovers. And then, like an NFL wide receiver who just caught the ball and ran the length of the field for a touchdown, I put my hand over my heart, point up toward heaven — and start washing the dishes.
A version of this essay was originally published in Thanksgiving Tales: True Stories of the Holiday in America. Reprinted with permission of the publisher. When the author is not freaking out about a cooking a large bird, she blogs about Baby Boomer travel for the body and mind at Boomeresque.