Young turks

Often, during this season of gorging, binging and overindulgence, I am reminded of my brief stint into dietary experimentation. That’s right. For three months back in the summer of ’92, I declared myself a vegetarian. We’re not talking an “I only eat chicken and fish” vegetarian, but a full-blown, no-animal flesh consuming veg head. This was much to the dismay of my parents, who were convinced I had gone off to school in Boulder to become a card-carrying member of the Communist Party. Anyway, like most college-age forays, it didn’t last, mostly due to the late-night call of the Taco Bell drive-thru. Today, I like to think of myself as more of an “opportunitarian” or “conveniencenarian” – you know, I’ll give it a whirl when someone else is doing the buying, cleaning and cooking. Truth be told, this does not happen as much as I would like. When left to my own devices, cracking open a can of beans is a lot easier than a can of meat. (Which, if you ask me, is completely sick and wrong in the first place. And I’m sorry, but Spam or that other vile invention, Vienna Sausage, have no business passing themselves off as “meat.” I don’t care how drunk you are.)

Anyway, back to opportunitarianism. Or lack thereof. See, last Thanksgiving, I, like many hungry yet culinarily inept folks, found myself in the predicament of having nowhere to go for the big feast (other than the house of my Canadian neighbors, who were rumored to be serving up something called “back bacon.”) Well, as I mentioned earlier, I went to college. So, I figured, if I could navigate the public university system successfully in four years, then cooking a dead bird would be a cinch. Sure, I could have played it safe and ordered up the ready-to-eat supper from the supermarket, complete with Hungry Man potato flakes and processed turk-o-loaf. Or, I could have revisited my veggie heyday with a Tofurkey. But, no offense to Tofurkey connoiseurs, who may have to eat it out of religious, health or moral obligations, I just can’t help feel there is something wrong with refusing to eat meat yet fully embracing a meat-flavored and meat-textured substitute. Not to mention that “meat substitute” is a stretch, here. From my first (and last) Tofurkey consumption a few years back, I recall it being more akin to Lipton Cup-of-Soup flavored wallpaper paste. In which case I’d say, you’re better off with Vienna Sausage.

Anyway, as you can probably gather, I went the carnivorous route last year, being the dutiful and gluttonous American that I am. But it was not before saying a silent prayer for the poor animal who gave his free-range gobbling, organic, grain-fed life so I could have cranberry-turkey-stuffing leftover sandwiches at 2 a.m. Be that as it may, this is not a story about dietary practices, although I will say that the thought of my grandmother’s mincemeat pie still haunts me to this very day.

No, this is a cautionary tale. And as hundreds if not thousands of J.V. Betty Crockers out there head into that vast wilderness known as the kitchen, I beg of you, do not, under any circumstances, try to fit a 15-pound turkey in a 5-pound pan. I know, you’ve probably all heard the other, less-appetizing version of this little life lesson. But take my word, those old wives knew a thing or two about home economics. Namely that, although you saved $2 by using the smaller disposable foil pan you already had on hand instead of splurging on a new, larger one, you run the risk of losing not only the $20 turkey in which you plan to cram it, but possibly your eyelashes, eyebrows and maybe even your entire house. See, although it may look sweet and innocent when you place its pale, plucked carcass into the oven, those birds have a way of expanding exponentially. Next thing you know, you’re dealing with a spewing grease geyser. I don’t care if you have a turkey baster the size of the Goodyear Blimp, there ain’t no way you’re going be able to suction up all those drippings before the turkey tidal wave hits the oven floor.

Naturally, when guests are due to arrive on your doorstep any second and  flames shooting out of one’s oven, it is easy for any incompetent hostess to hit the panic button, which is precisely what I did. But, I besiege you, opening and closing the door in rapid succession, although seemingly rational, does nothing to fight the flames. Nor does a marital squabble over the whereabouts of the fire extinguisher or how big a mess a 5-pound bag of flour in a burning oven is going to make.

Anyway, as my entire Norman Rockwell Thanksgiving suddenly turned into “The Towering Inferno,” I abandoned hopes of getting the blaze under control and began a mental checklist of the items I would grab as we fled the burning structure.

“We need to get it out of here, now,” the spousal unit said in desperation, sweat pouring from his brow.

Right. It was too late to save any priceless mementos; it was a matter of life and death. “I’ll grab the kids,” I said over the crackling blaze roaring from the Amana electric self-cleaner.

But the spouseman, who had babysat that bird for the last several hours like it was one of his own, had different plans. “What? No, save the turkey!” he declared, with the iron will of a four-star general preparing for a bloody siege. And with that, he donned his elbow-high, flame-retardant mitts and plunged headlong into battle.

There was a splatter of grease, more flames, a deafening crash and then a bright flash of light. When the smoke finally cleared, the turkey emerged, a bit on the well-done side, but no longer engulfed in flames. OK, so it was no Butterball poster child, but it was surprisingly intact.

“It’s blackened,” we told the unsuspecting dinner guests, who were evacuated to another room upon their punctual arrival none the wiser.

Fortunately for turkeys and firefighters everywhere, the Amana will remain cold and dark this year, as bird duties have been passed on down the familiar line of duty. And I’d be lying if I didn’t say the whole near-death experience hasn’t made me think twice about holiday meal preparation. Needless to say, one of those new-fangled turkey deep fryers is out of the question. In fact, I might even be willing to give the oft maligned Tofurkey another shot. I hear they’re a lot harder to catch fire.

– Missy Votel