Monthly Archives: December 2017

The Turkey

Before I had my first child, I’d never cooked a turkey. I didn’t feel grown up enough for the task. To me, that mysterious arrangement of stuffing and those magnificent sides of creamy mashed potatoes and turnip apple casserole could only be produced by a mother. Many years later, I’m on the other side of countless Christmas, Easter and ‘just because’ dinners. For those who’ve not done it, it’s easy, yet time consuming.

I baked a lot this year, so decided to take a short cut when it came to Christmas dinner. Instead of making my own stuffing from scratch, I bought a frozen, stuffed turkey that I could remove from the freezer, unwrap, place in the roaster and cook. Three hours went by, then four, and still no delicious smell wafted from the oven. I kept checking until at last the turkey started to brown. Soon I put the lid on the roaster and cranked up the heat. Four hours later, the leg seemed wiggly enough to pronounce the thing done.

My family mostly stayed in the living room, which is how I like it. No problem, I thought, as I unloaded the huge bird onto a tray and proceeded to make the gravy. The other food went back into the oven to keep warm. It was when I started carving the bird that I realized I had a problem. At first, the meat just seemed moist and lovely. Un-turkey-like, one might say. But gradually, I realized that the darn thing wasn’t fully cooked. And it was past dinner time. After thirty seconds of cartoon-like panic, I started placing the carved meat in glass bowls for microwaving.

I must digress. When we got our new appliances, the microwave was too large for its usual spot. So we put it on a counter with no wall behind it. To operate it one must cradle it firmly, like an uncooperative lover, while attempting to press the door opener, also difficult. The counter was covered in glass bowls filled with meat and dressing. I was working up a sweat trying to beat the microwave into submission and save my family from a gastronomic nightmare.

The revelation came to me while I wrestled with my problem. Three days of -30 weather with the turkey parked on a garage shelf had caused my problem. It was a very large bird. And there was no room at the inn. I mean the freezer. It probably took four hours in the oven just to thaw out.

But at last all was ready, and I’m happy to say that no one got sick. So if you ever consider keeping your turkey in the garage, check the forecast. If you live in Manitoba, you may have a problem. On the other hand, half the turkey was left on the bone, and it made the loveliest broth.

Once Upon A Time, in Flin Flon

When I was at Zumba one night, we were doing this Greek dance that involved lots of finger snapping. The bottom half of me performed just fine, but the top half had to fake it because I’m snap impaired. Always have been. And it made me wonder. Like in fairy tales, was there a good and bad fairy at my christening? If so, it’s obvious which one held the most power. I picture the good fairy standing over me with her wand, ignoring my bewildered parents who begin praying that the priest will show up any minute.

Tapping me lightly on the brow, she says,”I grant Judith average good looks.”

Bad fairy speaks. Her tap is a little harder. “But her teeth will never line up properly. And she’ll be really short and need glasses. And…” At this point, the good fairy steps up. Her voice is high and light.

“Judith will have the ability to make people laugh.”

Bad fairy:

“She will have a lifelong affinity for strange accidents: She’ll fall off the stage at her ballet concert, forget to wear underwear on a windy day in Ashern, embarrass her first boyfriend with her appalling lack of info on human anatomy which she will voice loudly while surrounded by teenagers in a local movie theatre. And so on.” (The bad fairies voice sounds like she’s smoked for five hundred years and eaten way too much dairy.)

Good fairy:

“She will have enough brains to get out of high school and fake her way through university.”

Bad fairy:

“But she will have blonde moments, many of them, even though she hasn’t truly been blonde since her 12th birthday.”

Good fairy: (forgetting to add another blessing.) “Blonde moments? Why, I myself am a gorgeous blonde. What moments are we talking about?”

Bad fairy: ‘Don’t get me started.”

And the bickering continued with nary a mention of further gifts. There was to be no athletic ability or gracefulness. Or even the ability to keep my mouth shut from time to time. It’s not that I talk too much, (insert husband’s opinion here) but that I speak thoughtlessly about pretty much any topic. I get an idea in my head and it catapults out of my mouth before my brain has a chance to rally the troops and lock the gate. One might say the same about these blog posts.

The whole idea of fairies at my christening actually makes me feel better about things. So don’t try and tell me that my forgetfulness comes from my dad, or my inability to sit still is a gift from my mother. Nope. Bad fairy. Good fairy. I’m still waiting for the middle aged fairy to make an appearance because she has a lot to answer for. But that’s a topic for another day.