by Tom Watson –
For most North Americans, Thanksgiving is a time for family and friends to appreciate each other, their surroundings and blessings. A chance to reflect, contemplate the meaning of life and, perhaps most of all, decide exactly what time the bird needs to go in the oven. Yes, Thanksgiving can also be a litmus test for a marriage.
The pressure to host the “Dinner” for your family, some of whom behave like they haven’t eaten since the last meal you served. The pinnacle symbol of all great family meals is, of course, the turkey. When my wife and I were just starting out, it made sense for us to take this on. With a lot of family and a couple of wayward friends on the guest list, it was going to be a sizeable meal and although we had some help with the side dishes, the main event was up to us.
After some heavy calculations, we determined the right time to put the bird in the oven. It was of such a size that I was sent to the store to get a foil pan large enough to contain its girth.
Everything seemed to be going well. Every so often, we’d pop matching aprons on and, feeling very empowered and accomplished, open the oven door, slide the rack out a few inches, baste and slide it back in. People arrived, drinks were served and delightful dishes were brought. Dinner was almost ready; now came the time to remove the bird from the oven and let it rest prior to carving. We’d done well thus far and, with the bravery provided by a couple of celebratory beverages, felt we were well on our way to a feature article in Good Housekeeping! With aprons tied tightly, oven mitts snug and ready for the task, and me in brand new all-leather slippers I’d received for my birthday, we opened the oven door. My wife slid the rack out enough for me to grab both sides of the foil pan. The bird was a beautiful golden brown simmering away in two inches of its own bubbling juices; it looked and smelled amazing.
As I carried the entire ensemble away from the oven, the foil pan buckled under the weight of the bird and formed a perfect spout out of which poured the simmering juices. Slicker than any substance that NASA has developed, these juices coated the linoleum floor and my new slippers, resulting in my feet flailing in every direction at a pace of which Michael Flatley could only dream.
Once my feet settled and I got the bird safely on the counter, there was a brief moment of silence, then disbelief, then anger, at which point I kicked my left leg out and, while exclaiming that it wasn’t all my fault, my freshly greased slipper flew off my equally greased foot like a cold war missile launch. The slipper caught some sort of unexpected “updraft” then smashed the hallway light fixture, resulting in a shower of antique glass.
My wife and I stood, motionless, again going through a moment of disbelief, broken only when my dad, innocently and very slowly, poked his head in the kitchen a few inches and whispered: “is everything OK?”
That was 25 years ago, but it’s still the most memorable Thanksgiving ever. We passed the test. We’ve had steak ever since.
