Today I ordered an honest to god, formerly clucking, turkey. And I feel very accomplished. Not exactly the emotion I imagined feeling after buying a turkey, especially being a vegetarian. But nonetheless, I am filled with triumphant joy. I feel as though I have just run across the finish line of an important race. My own personal Boston Marathon.
The butcher shop where I placed an order for the blessed bird was exactly the sort of shop you imagine would be in a small town. The sigh outside assured you of the authenticity of the meat you were buying – “Real meat, Real Irish Farms, Real People” – and while I pondered why they would feel the need to be specific about the real meat (no fake stuff here!) I was more worried about the “real people” portion. Stepping into the shop, I could not help but admire the red and white striped awning that hung overhead, which perfectly matched the aprons of the store clerks (complete with matching hats). The store was littered with elderly women and a few, admittedly lost looking, husbands. I was the youngest person there by about fifty years. Even the clerk who took my order looked old enough to be my grandfather. He leaned over the counter and, after waving goodbye to some usuals, asked “What can I do for you love?” I explained my turkey predicament; buying a frozen turkey and having to defrost it versus spending the extra pounds to buy a fresh turkey. He gave me a knowing look and said, “Thanksgiving?” And here I was, thinking I had concealed my Americanism so well. He chuckled and went about checking prices and turkey deliveries, while I chatted with a lovely woman (Susan) who was buying some lamb for this evening. Her grandson was coming into town for a visit – “He’s such a nice lad, it is a wonder her hasn’t found a girl yet, you should really meet him….” Lucky the butcher came back then or I fear I may have been going to dinner as her grandson’s welcome home surprise.
In the end, I ordered my turkey and managed to leave knowing more about turkey than I had coming in. I almost didn’t make it out, a few old ladies tried to entice me with their own turkey recipes and discussions on proper brining (a word I learned today) and a debate over giblets (with or without?). By the time I left the store, with a wave from Declan the butcher, I felt like a usual myself.
This really is a momentous occasion. My first thanksgiving turkey. I feel ever so important and grown up. This is the first thanksgiving I am not spending with family and, while I will miss Aunt Kathryn’s turkey and accoutrement, I feel that this is almost a rite of passage that I must complete. But I am also realizing the work that goes into Thanksgiving. There are so many things I must make – and all in one day?! How is it done? I am torn between buying some of the food pre-made and making it all for the sake of authenticity. I fear that I am too proud to buy pre-made food in this situation. Half of me is very rpoud of this – we will not yield to the pressures! – while the other half groans and thinks of all the work to be done.
Now only one question remains in my mind: How am I going to fit a whole turkey into our tiny oven?
Wish me luck,
Kelsey
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