don't tell her about the turkey
I will now share with you my favorite Thanksgiving story of ever. Ever.
My grandmother, as you know, grew up during the Great Depression. She operated a little differently than most folks did in the consume-and-dispose eighties. She'd rinse and reuse butter tubs, she'd save twisties from bread bags, she'd melt down little withered slivers of soap into a mysterious jar of soft soap that never hardened. (She took that trick to her grave, wish I'd known how she did that.)
The turkey on Thanksgiving was my mom's job, most of the time. After the day's demolition of the feast the remains all went to Grandma, who put them to good use. She'd strip every shred of meat from the bones, then put the carcass in a caldron-sized pot and make stock out of it. We'd have soup and sandwiches for weeks until nobody wanted to even think about turkey again -- but by then it was time for herring, so the turkey didn't seem so bad.
Well, most years we had soup and sandwiches. One year we didn't. Grandma did, and we didn't, and we never told her why.
Memory is funny. You don't remember a thing, you remember telling the story of the thing, to yourself or someone else. I know I was at school when this happened, although I can see it in my head as though I was there. I don't remember my mom telling me this, although I know she did. I just remember what I'd envisioned when she told me, and if I think about this I can see it happen, even though I never actually did.
What happened was this: she had the turkey out, I think to pull some meat to make a sandwich, and she stepped out of the room for a moment. That's all it took, because Sadie, the 85lb dog who was part woolly mammoth and part coward, hauled herself up to the counters and pulled the carcass to the floor, where Buster the Small and Ravenous anxiously awaited. Together, the dogs set to work. I don't know how they did this without bringing the platter to the floor and smashing it, but Sadie was skilled in mayhem. But that's what my mother found when she came back: a half-stripped turkey carcass in the middle of the floor and two extremely happy dogs.
Now. My grandmother would not throw things out until they were good and used up. She cut toothpaste tubes in half to scrape the last bits out of them. She'd hover over us and ask if we were going to drink the last flat inch of soda in the bottle, or she'd guzzle the milk 'before it went bad' -- I think that last was a cover story. If the turkey went into the trash she'd have a fit. She was genuinely happy reducing the thing to ingredients for stuff only she ate. (Grandma had a cast-iron stomach, while my mother and I most emphatically do not; we only ate her cooking if it came from a recipe.)
If my mom threw out the turkey and didn't say why, there'd be a big fuss about Wasting A Perfectly Good Third of A Turkey. If she threw it out and did say why, there'd be that fuss plus the Kurat, I Let You Have Dogs And You Don't Train Them lecture, which we also got a lot. (Grandma was unimpressed with things like Heel and Sit and Stay; she expected the dogs to be Disney dogs and understand every word we said. Though, she got a kick out of Sadie sleeping on the coffee table. Yes, an 85lb dog on the coffee table. That was allowed. You see where I get it from? The wacky goes back generations.)
There was only one thing my mother could do to keep the post-holiday peace. She rinsed it off, returned it to the platter, wrapped it, and stuck it back in the fridge. She pulled me aside when I got home and told me what happened. I was not to eat the turkey, and I was also not to tell Grandma what the dogs did.
I'm fairly sure my grandmother suspected something, but to the best of my knowledge she never found out.
My grandmother, as you know, grew up during the Great Depression. She operated a little differently than most folks did in the consume-and-dispose eighties. She'd rinse and reuse butter tubs, she'd save twisties from bread bags, she'd melt down little withered slivers of soap into a mysterious jar of soft soap that never hardened. (She took that trick to her grave, wish I'd known how she did that.)
The turkey on Thanksgiving was my mom's job, most of the time. After the day's demolition of the feast the remains all went to Grandma, who put them to good use. She'd strip every shred of meat from the bones, then put the carcass in a caldron-sized pot and make stock out of it. We'd have soup and sandwiches for weeks until nobody wanted to even think about turkey again -- but by then it was time for herring, so the turkey didn't seem so bad.
Well, most years we had soup and sandwiches. One year we didn't. Grandma did, and we didn't, and we never told her why.
Memory is funny. You don't remember a thing, you remember telling the story of the thing, to yourself or someone else. I know I was at school when this happened, although I can see it in my head as though I was there. I don't remember my mom telling me this, although I know she did. I just remember what I'd envisioned when she told me, and if I think about this I can see it happen, even though I never actually did.
What happened was this: she had the turkey out, I think to pull some meat to make a sandwich, and she stepped out of the room for a moment. That's all it took, because Sadie, the 85lb dog who was part woolly mammoth and part coward, hauled herself up to the counters and pulled the carcass to the floor, where Buster the Small and Ravenous anxiously awaited. Together, the dogs set to work. I don't know how they did this without bringing the platter to the floor and smashing it, but Sadie was skilled in mayhem. But that's what my mother found when she came back: a half-stripped turkey carcass in the middle of the floor and two extremely happy dogs.
Now. My grandmother would not throw things out until they were good and used up. She cut toothpaste tubes in half to scrape the last bits out of them. She'd hover over us and ask if we were going to drink the last flat inch of soda in the bottle, or she'd guzzle the milk 'before it went bad' -- I think that last was a cover story. If the turkey went into the trash she'd have a fit. She was genuinely happy reducing the thing to ingredients for stuff only she ate. (Grandma had a cast-iron stomach, while my mother and I most emphatically do not; we only ate her cooking if it came from a recipe.)
If my mom threw out the turkey and didn't say why, there'd be a big fuss about Wasting A Perfectly Good Third of A Turkey. If she threw it out and did say why, there'd be that fuss plus the Kurat, I Let You Have Dogs And You Don't Train Them lecture, which we also got a lot. (Grandma was unimpressed with things like Heel and Sit and Stay; she expected the dogs to be Disney dogs and understand every word we said. Though, she got a kick out of Sadie sleeping on the coffee table. Yes, an 85lb dog on the coffee table. That was allowed. You see where I get it from? The wacky goes back generations.)
There was only one thing my mother could do to keep the post-holiday peace. She rinsed it off, returned it to the platter, wrapped it, and stuck it back in the fridge. She pulled me aside when I got home and told me what happened. I was not to eat the turkey, and I was also not to tell Grandma what the dogs did.
I'm fairly sure my grandmother suspected something, but to the best of my knowledge she never found out.