A Thanksgiving Story Entitled: The First Turkey We've Ever Prepared to Cook

Well. It finally happened. And I can almost positively say that I never want to do it again.

This is our sixth Thanksgiving married, and, until now, have always escaped the actual turkey-cooking. Our first three years we lived close to home, so we enjoyed the benefits of one of our parents cooking (my family, actually, are not turkey lovers--we usually go for BBQ ribs on Thanksgiving). The fourth year we flew cross-country from NC to CA to feast with Steve's extended familia--I believe there were 30+ people in attendance. And last year, though we dined with friends, we once again escaped having to tackle a turkey.

It was kind of a traumatic almost vegetarianising experience for me.

Let me explain. Steve and I... we eat boneless, skinless chicken breasts, or ground turkey or beef, or, for a special occasion steaks. Nothing that looks like it is still an animal. You know what I'm saying?

So from the moment this little 12 pound turkey was plopped into the trunk, I was dreading the moment where I would have to plunge my tiny hand into her innards and fish out the giblets.

Now, I was intimidated at the idea of cooking a turkey--it is the focal point of the festivities, after all (I mean it should be gratitude, but I think people are really grateful about the turkey right at the beginning because they're hungry)--so I facebooked for help, and received lots of great tips. I also called my mom to find out a quicker way to defrost (in the sink, in cold water, refreshing the water periodically).

As she defrosted, I asked (begged) Steve, well in advance of the actual moment, to get the giblets out. He didn't want to.

"But all the things you do!" I said. Like dissect cadavers, and do nasty medical exams. He maintained that with those, at least he knew what to expect. He didn't want to stick his hand in there anymore than I did. But--oh! True husband and true man!--he did it. It was even more disgusting than either of us had imagined. There was a point when the giblet bag hit the counter and I freaked out. Enough to touch it so I could life it off the counter. Also, the neck-place made us both ill.

"We never would have made it on a farm," Steve said.

"I know." I looked at the poor turkey, whom Steve had dubbed "the mysterious bird" and who I sometimes referred to as "the old girl," feeling oddly attached. "I kind of feel bad for her," I said.

Steve agreed. "Me, too." We gave her an apologetic look. I may have patted her... No, probably not, because I was still struggling to even touch her. But in my mind, I patted her. "How do you know its a her? Could be a him."

"No, it said hen on her package," I explained. "Okay. I'm going to give her an oil massage."

Steve gave me a skeptical look. Probably because I basically hadn't touched her AT ALL unless absolutely necessary. But I felt that was something I could do. So he got the trash together and took it outside while I poured olive oil over the "mysterious bird."

"Okay, turkey," I said, gearing up.

"What?" Steve called from the porch.

"I was just talking to the turkey." He nodded. Talking to turkeys is not strange for me.

One oil massage, seasoning session, and stuffing-gently-and-guiltily-with-sliced-lemons later, she was put in her oven bag and tucked into the fridge for the night.

Now she waits for her moment. Turkey, I really hope I cook you well. I'm really thankful that you gave your life so we can eat you. I'm kind of sorry about it, actually. So I hope I did a good enough job to do you some justice. Also, I'm not being sarcastic.

Everybody cross your fingers, cooking starts in about a half an hour.