So itâs 2001, and my family drives from fucking California and like three blizzards to get to Ohio for thanksgiving, becuase my grandparents are moving into a nursing home and itâs their last holiday in that house. So its a bit bittersweet but ultimately a good thing.
Since itâs their last holiday there, the family pulls out all the stops when it comes to dinner, all the Russian desserts come out, as does the Lethal Bacon Mashed Potatoes and the horrible candied yams with the mini marshmallows dish because not all expressions of love are good, even if they are sincere. In the spirit of going all-out, Uncle Bobby smokes a Turkey. Â
Uncle Bobby started cooking as a boy scout by tossing foil-wrapped potatoes into a campfire and has been addicted since, and now has a hand-made smokehouse in the backyard where he makes various cured meats and other delights. He seasons the turkey in the traditional manner, but he and grandpa have a shared passion for a spicier mesquite-style bird, so Bobby makes a Cornish Game Hen seasoned that way, for them.
Then Bobby has a Brilliant Idea. He realizes that he can stuff the turkey (once it has been smoked) with regular stuffing, and there is still plenty of room for him to put the game hen inside THAT, and stuff the game hen becuase why not? He confers with Mom, and she explains how to cut open the turkey so thereâs dramatic reveal as the stuffing and game hen come out. Itâs Genius.
Except, of course, that my Aunt Sue is attending, Uncle Cliff slouching after her.
So the day of the dinner, tensions are running a bit high, between the marathon cooking, the kids all being trapped indoors due to aforementioned blizzards, and Uncle Cliff deciding that the best way to amuse himself is by hiding from the adults in the basement, getting drunk and rambling about how various ethic groups were destroying America. Being that I had close Muslim friends that were leaving the country becuase of 9/11, I was near tears from this nonsense and ready to fight a man roughly five times my size. Â
Sue, for some reason, keeps coming down and defending him, or telling us weâre rotten children for âattackingâ him, becuase she Must Stand By Her Man, even if her man is a hefty bag of dog feces with an ugly mustache.
My sister eventually bolts upstairs to tattle and my grandfather limps down to the basement and brandishes his Hip-Bone Cane, hands rock-steady in spite of the Parkinsonâs slowly taking over him.
âFirstly Cliff, It may not be my roof much longer but while you are under it you will be civil, or Iâll beat your skull in. Also, dinnerâs ready, everyone go wash up.â
We go upstairs and sit down, and do the traditional âName one thing youâre thankful forâ as the bread gets passed around the table, and things calm down a bit. Bobby brings out the Turkey and everyone goes OOH becuase itâs really pretty, them Mom carves it open so that the stuffing spills out dramatically along with the game hen and thereâs an appreciative gasp all around becuase it looks cool.
Only Sue KEEPS gasping, in utter horror, before getting up and clasping her hands to her face ala Edvard Munch and shrieks-
âOH MY GOD IT WAS PREGNANT!â
We all stare at Sue. We all look back at the fully-dressed-cooked-and-stuffed birds that in no way had any internal organs in them or ever gave live birth. Then we all looked back at Sue, trying to figure out where to begin but since sheâd been trying to justify Cliffâs behavior she was pretty much free-associating conspiracies and scandals now, and just kept going.
âIT WAS PREGNANT MY GOD WEâVE COMMITTED AN ABORTION WEâRE ALL GOING TO HELL FOR THIS, IâM SO SORRY JESUS-â She goes into full pearl-clutching gibbering horror at this point and falls back into her chair like itâs a Victorian fainting couch only itâs a shitty chair from the Eisenhower administration so it collapses and she slams into the floor, sobbing and kicking her feet like a toddler.
Everyone watched for a moment before my Mom sighs heavily and starts carving and serving the turkey while my grandmother mouths âsheâs not coming backâ. Â
Cliff, reactions delayed by about six beers, finally notices his wife is on the floor and tries to pick her up, falls on his ass himself. They are assisted by Dad, who is saintly patient man and less immune to this jacknapery at that point. I am stuffing dinner rolls into my face to keep from laughing at this grand spectacle and itâs not working.
âI CANâT EAT IT, I REFUSE TO PARTAKE IN THIS BARBARISM-â Sue begins but Dad puts on his best Kindly Father voice (he was heavily involved with the catholic church and even considered becoming a priest before getting drafted but thatâs another story) and assures Sue that she need not eat, or even be in the room if she wants. She nods, placated by being the center of attention again, and Dad goes in for the kill.
âI wouldnât want you to go hungry. Can I make you some Eggs?â
âThat would be lovely.â Said Sue, joke flying over her head like a boeing 747. I recall watching my grandmother nearly choke to death on the green beans over that, and everyone pointedly trying to avoid talking about anything poultry-related while Sue sat there and ate the most ironic scrambled eggs in the history of mankind.
Shortly thereafter, Cliff threw up in the sink and they went home, and the party got underway properly, with Grandpa raising a toast to Mom and Uncle Bobby âFor marrying well, for a changeâ
âPregnant Turkeyâ has been an Ohioan thanksgiving staple since then. Iâll see if I can hit Uncle Bobby up for instructions but if you decide to make it 1. you HAVE to shriek âOH MY GOD IT WAS PREGNANTâ when you carve it open, or itâs not authentic and wonât taste as good 2. Share the pictures with me.
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