Learning how to cook a turkey was something I never thought I could do as a kid. Though my mom's turkey was always dry, I liked it because I knew no different. I thought turkey was supposed to be that way. My teen years were spent shuffling between leaving home and brief stints back at home living with my dad. My dad was not exactly what I would call a cook; he mostly ate what my sister would bring him, fast food or cooked chili, using his special ingredients added to Chili-O mix—ketchup.
After I returned to stay with him for a few months in 1996, I knew Daddy wasn't going to have much of a Thanksgiving. So, I went out to Delchamps on my bicycle and bought a turkey, along with Stove Top stuffing (which I stopped using after learning how to make my mom's dressing) and a few other fixings that would fit into my backpack. I really had no clue what I was doing in the kitchen, but I remembered little things from recipe books from the '50s and '60s that I had read at the library in Milton, Florida, while looking for things to talk about on the radio show my friend Charlie and I did.
When my dad returned home from work the night before Thanksgiving, he shook his head and told me I wasted my money on all of that and might as well just order us a pizza or wait for my sister Becki to bring us a few plates from her husband's family's get-together, which I knew she would do for him as she had done before. I was determined to make this work.
I got up early Thanksgiving morning, just as my mom did when I was a kid, and fired up the oven. I went to work using the knowledge from those ancient recipe books. I put a lot of the tips together, and though each one seemed odd and dated and was never mentioned in the cooking instructions of that Butterball turkey, they somehow made sense. Some of the cooking tips included using margarine rather than butter on the skin, as it would allow the skin to hold the juices in without burning as quickly. I also baked the turkey upside down for two-thirds of the cooking time and then flipped it over for the last third, figuring out the logistics without burning myself or tearing the turkey apart was a challenge in itself. Another tip was to forgo basting and pour two cartons of chicken or vegetable broth into the bottom of the pan, allowing it to steam the turkey. I then reused the broth to make gravy and add flavor to the dressing. By noon, I pulled out the turkey one final time and took my chance at cutting it open to serve it alongside brown-and-serve rolls, cream-style corn, Stove Top stuffing, mashed potatoes, and gravy that I had prepared.
I was very proud of myself, and Daddy seemed to be very impressed that I proved him wrong. To this day, I can still hear his voice when he told me that for as long as he knew my mom, she couldn't manage to master cooking a turkey, but here I was, a pro on my very first try. Years later, my Thanksgiving meals have grown. Though I still only cook for two, I cook enough for myself and Terry to eat on throughout the week, including his favorite (and not mine), Green Bean Casserole. I use the leftover turkey to make broth, which I freeze to use for other dishes throughout the year. Thank you for hanging out with me today and reading this memory and I hope you all have a wonderful Thanksgiving today while I am working, the airport never closes.
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