Let's Talk Turkey
I have a long hapless history with turkeys. I've dated quite a few. That is, if you describe dating as I do: A planned engagement preceded by nerve-wracking anticipation atop a ton of lofty expectation only to end in exhaustion, crushed dreams, and withering disappointment. Sometimes even gastrointestinal distress.
It all started with Butterball. You’d think with a name like that, I’d have a winner. I mean, who doesn’t like butter, let alone balls? Perdue and Honeysuckle were next followed by Shady Brook. The name Shady itself should have tipped me off as it was indeed one slick turkey, slipping out of my hands onto the floor as I cried fowl and yelled, “Get a grip on yourself!”
By the way, all of these turkeys, each and every one of them, were full of themselves, boasting good taste and perfection. Of course, I fell for their claims. Even though, year after year, one turkey after the other was tougher than the next. Couldn’t they at least try a little tenderness?
At first I blamed myself. I do run a little hot, often overheating. Plus, I still don’t understand stuffing, let alone where to put it. One expert blamed my failure rate on the fact that I pick extra-large turkeys. I find that offensive. Others suggested I do it upside down for the first hour. What is this, Cirque du Soleil?
Another authority said to select only fresh turkeys. Seriously? The last thing I need in a relationship is a cheeky turkey. It’s bad enough I have to see their gizzards.
Then, there are those mavericks who recommended wild turkey. At first, I was all in! I love bourbon. But then I realized they meant turkeys that live outside in the woods. People, I don’t even camp! Besides, I don’t know about you, but I’m not randomly picking any ol’ turkey from my backyard. I have standards!
Finally, in a desperate attempt, I searched for advice from Bobby Flay, celebrity chef and restaurateur par excellence. Or at least I thought so until he said, “I whack off the legs and the thighs!” What is wrong with this man? This certainly explains his divorce rate. I suggest he work on his approach.
They say our relationships are a reflection on how we were parented. If this is true, I never had a chance. My mother, bless her heart, skewered every turkey she met.
Wearing a chenille robe that I’m pretty sure was a bedspread, she’d meet them in the wee hours of daybreak, trudging to the kitchen with a lit Virginia Slims. My mother tussled with turkey after turkey like wrestling matches held in a sink. Eventually she’d throw in the towel and exit the kitchen disheveled and stricken. Come to think of it, those turkeys probably deserved a little more enthusiasm and a lot less secondhand smoke. Though I can understand why her heart wasn’t in it. After all, she was married to my dad, who was a turkey.
Maybe my lackluster history with turkeys is indubitably my fault. The truth stands for itself. There’s been a new turkey every year and just the one me. I am the common denominator. I must be the problem, not the turkey. I can’t even blame the tough ones with no taste. Folks, this is why I go to therapy. So one day the turkey and I will unite in roasting nirvana. Where gobble-gobble won’t be just the sound of a turkey, but of me eating it. If not that, then I hope there’s a special chicken out there waiting just for me.