Thanksgiving Dinner

Drew was going to cook! Oh, boy. I had visions of leisurely lolling about while great smells emanated from the kitchen. After all, every one of my boys can cook, especially Mark. OK, so a turkey will be a new experience for Drew, but I can look over his shoulder and advise.

Mom always cooked the turkey in our house when I was growing up. She would rise at the crack of pre-dawn to stuff a huge 20+ pounder, and tuck it snugly into the oven while she proceeded to peel potatoes and squash, cut celery stalks, open jars of olives and pickles and cranberry sauce. It seemed so effortless.

Gram and Gramp would arrive around ten and the men and kids would sit in the living room chatting or watching the Macy's Parade on TV while the women bustled about the kitchen fussing over places settings and V-8 juice and oyster casserole. The sideboard was crammed full of nibbling foods - nuts, figs, dates, dried fruit, mints, grapes - enough to keep you going until the meal proper was ready.

That's the vision I had in my head when I awoke at 5:30am and thought about waking Drew to stuff the turkey. He would never go for getting up so early, and we did have a brown-in bag which reduces the cooking time, so I rolled over and shut my eyes, happy with thoughts of Thanksgivings past.

I briefly considered rousing Drew at 6, 6:30 and 7:30 and finally at 8:30am, I could wait no longer. After all, half the day was gone already. I opened his bedroom door and softly called his name. No response. I reached over and touched his shoulder. He grunted and pulled the covers over his head. I finally yelled for him to get up and exited the room, hoping he would actually be motivated enough to come to the kitchen and help. One way or the other, we had to get that bird in the oven!

I had pulled the mostly thawed turkey from the fridge and was cutting the package open when Drew stumbled into the kitchen. I handed him the stuffing package and told him to follow the directions. It took him awhile to figure out how to do it, but when it was done, he looked at me questioningly. "OK," I said, "Now scoop the stuffing into the turkey." Seemed reasonable to me.

His eyes opened wide and he almost dropped the pan of stuffing. "I am NOT putting my hand inside a turkey. No way." He was dead serious. "OK, then use the spoon to scoop it in." "NO!" Good grief, kid. I showed him how to poke the dressing into the hollow between the legs. He adamantly refused to do it, and furthermore announced that he was definitely NOT going to eat anything that had been inside a dead bird.

"Fine. You can make up more stuffing later. Right now I need you to get the potatoes going while I see if the parade has started." I looked around. Drew was gone, nowhere in sight. Drew? Drew? He was safely back in his bedroom with the covers pulled over his head. So much for Drew doing any cooking! I finished making the meal myself, stepping into the living room to catch bits of the parade. Somehow it wasn't quite the same as the Thanksgivings of my childhood. For one brief moment I thought perhaps I should have bought a few tangerines or figs, but the feeling passed since I can't eat tangerines and I don't really care for dried figs all that much.

When at last the meal was ready and the table all set with candles and flowers, it was all I could do to coax Drew out of his bedroom at noon. He pretty much wanted to sleep the day away and he wasn't particularly grateful for being dragged out of bed because his Mom had some silly idea about eating together.

Once we got over the grumpies and started talking, things got better, and by the time we got to the apple pie (compliments of Wegmans - I'm not enough of a pie fan to make them anymore), it was actually a pleasant experience. Drew did manage to choke down a bite of turkey-ized stuffing, though he left the rest on his plate untouched. It was an education, alright. Just not the one I thought we were doing.