Every Thanksgiving I think of the first holiday turkey I prepared.
My husband Jerry and I had only been married three years and had two babies. We lived in a tiny unfinished cabin way out in the Ozark hills of southwest Missouri. We raised chickens for market - a couple of huge two-story houses with 8,000 clucking birds.
Every night, after Jerry arrived home from delivering Purina feed to other growers, we’d start the task of caring for our chickens. We had automatic water troughs but had to handfeed 50-pound sacks of mixed chicken feed. It took all evening.
In the fall we tried our hand at raising turkeys instead of chickens. When they were big enough, we let them roam outside their houses. Every time I’d step out the door, those pesky birds would run up to me and begin pecking my legs.
I relished the thought of cooking one for our Thanksgiving meal, but I’d never cooked a turkey before. We’d lived with my in-laws for most of our married life and I’d watched my mother pluck hens. It couldn’t be that hard.
The afternoon beforeThanksgiving Day, Jerry caught a nice plump bird from our flock and chopped off its head on the chopping block while I boiled a big bucket of water. After that dead gobbler quit his twitching, I grabbed him by the legs and dipped him head (or headless) first into the boiling water. I let the feathers get real soggy, then I laid him on the soft grass and began plucking. The feathers came out real easy, by the handfuls. I picked off all the tiny hairs so it was totally free of any fuzz.
I carried that naked bird into the house and washed it in the sink. I slit him open with a sharp knife and pulled out the gizzard and liver and heart. I put these in a pan to boil while I made pumpkin pies.
Thanksgiving morning I arose early and placed that turkey in a roaster. I rubbed him down with butter and salt and popped it in the oven. Ummmm, the aroma! As it baked I cooked mashed potatoes and green beans. I made giblet gravy from that turkey’s innards, adding a little thickening to the broth, and topped it off with sliced boiled eggs, just like I’d seen Mama do. I made deviled eggs and opened a jar of AuntSibyl’s sweet home-canned pickles.
At last I pulled the cooked turkey from the oven. He was a beautiful golden brown and smelled marvelous. Jerry sharpened the butcher knife and tore off the wings and legs and thighs. He cut them into chunks and arranged them on a platter, then began slicing the white meat of the breast.
All at once he exclaimed, “What in the world is this?”
I looked at the skeleton of the turkey and realized what I had (hadn’t) done. I hadn’t realized there were other “things” inside of animals that needed to be disposed of. So I had literally cooked that bird intact.
Well, we threw the rest of that turkey out to the dogs. We ate the part Jerry had already sliced and never told our guests.
I’ve cooked many turkey dinners since that time, though I’ve never since cleaned another turkey - I let the butcher take care of that. I will never forget how I failed to clean my first turkey properly. And that was the last batch of turkeys we ever raised.
Gobble, Gobble, who is that? Turkey gobbler, big and fat. Gobble, Gobble, what does he say? Meet me on Thanksgiving day - A little ditty we kids sang at Thanksgiving.
Marie Wiggin Putman, one-time Gravette resident, shares her thoughts with our readers each month.
Community, Pages 6 on 11/24/2010