All Part of the Act Folks
A Kitchen Christmas Caper
Two days thawing, and I’ve stuck my hand inside the turkey only to find it half-frozen. I wrestle out the neck and hold the bird under a hot water tap. All that time I’d spent patting it dry undone, I’ll need even more rolls of paper towel. This is what happens when my wife is off her feet because of toe surgery. We all help with Christmas dinner, but it’s not the same.
I’m the bartender of course, but also this year in charge of the turkey. So here we go, patting it dry a second time. Now I can spread my mixture of clarified butter, herbs and spices over the carcass. Luckily I didn’t get a bigger turkey, because the more I handle this slippery bastard the more unmanageable it gets. The legs need to be trussed, so I call out for some kitchen string, which my daughter Emma passes over. Not easy handling that stuff with greasy fingers, simultaneously pinning down the bird so it won’t squirt away. The whole process is taking too long — I‘d better get it in the oven.
Not so fast. Nearby someone opens a cupboard door which decides to spring off its hinges and crash to the floor. The cupboards often get loose, but not like this. The hinge has come apart, its tiny adjustment screw rolling across the kitchen floor. I manoeuvre into the cupboard only to be told the ladies want another cocktail. I can’t get up because our 10-month-old grandson, Miles, is fast approaching on all floors. He somehow squeezes between my outstretched legs and crawls over to where I remember spilling raw turkey juice.
Everything seems synchronized to Malcolm’s nasty little Christmas present. Emma has given her son a devilish Nintendo device which is issuing a distortion of screams, sirens and exploding bombs threatening to rip apart its tiny speaker. Meanwhile baby Miles’ father offers to re-attach the cupboard door so I can mix drinks. Despite explaining to my son why I need to do it myself, Aaron insists, and an argument erupts. While the turkey waits patiently I have to wrest the screwdriver from my son’s hands. The oven is pumping out 375 degrees and I tear off my sweater. With some effort the damn hinge snaps back in place. But as I rise perspiring and bare-chested, I feel a sharp sting — first on my face, then on the cheeks of my ass. Eight year-old Malcolm is peppering me with bullets from the high-powered Nerf gun he never leaves home without. In the meantime the turkey legs have come undone and I have to start over. Calf-roping at a rodeo might be easier. Precious time ticks by while the sideshow continues, Malcolm’s Nintendo cacophony providing a fitting soundtrack.
Turkey legs trussed, I hold the heavy pan in my slippery hands and call for someone to open the oven door. When at last the beast is safely inside, I drop to the nearest chair and sit there, motionless. In my festive bewilderment, words from Desiderata float across my mind: “Go placidly amid the noise and the haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence…” Lovely, except it seems no time before the kitchen timer tells me to start basting the turkey. Lurching toward the stove I have to remind myself what this is all about. Oh yes, Christmas. All part of the act, folks.
Now people are helping with side dishes. Even the wounded Cara hobbles over in her ankle boot to make gravy. It’s taking extra time, and she shouldn’t be on her feet at all. Before I can intervene someone announces Dad should “hurry up and carve the turkey.” I’ve had to take a codeine-laced Tylenol for my sore shoulder, and along with a double scotch it’s made for interesting Christmas spirit(s). Armed with sharpened butcher’s tools, I’m getting increasingly tired, but at least feeling no pain. There’s a large bone sticking up from the turkey, like an arm rising from the grave. Emma admits she and Malcolm couldn’t wait any longer, so in desperation tried ripping off a drumstick, only to strip the meat. Now the carcass lies cockeyed on the cutting board, making it hard to carve the thing in anything but chunks.
My dear wife says she could use some turkey drippings, so I make my way over to the stove with the cutting board, carefully balancing everything on top. It’s more difficult than I thought. The board behaves like a ship on the ocean, with me spilling juices like a drunken sailor. Instead of carving the turkey I’m down on the floor again, wiping. Never mind, when we finally get to the table our appetites have only just increased. The dinner conversation begins noisily with people competing for air time, interrupting each other as usual. Meanwhile little Miles in his high chair is oblivious; he’s focussed entirely on his first Christmas dinner. His mother, Christina, is as generous as Emma, sparing nothing on her son’s tray. The tiny lad doesn’t even look up, consuming every ounce of turkey and messy trimmings, after first playing with it. As for the kitchen slapstick to which I’ve subjected everyone, er… cheers! Hope the turkey’s worth it.
© Dec 2023 by Richard Hancox
