"Thanksgiving turkey was really foul bird" from the November 23, 1970 Door County Advocate
By KETA STEEBS
Thanksgiving turkey was really foul bird
By KETA STEEBS
I'm glad the Pilgrims landed at Plymouth Rock all right, and I'm glad some of them made it through that first winter but I wish the survivors could have found some other way to celebrate, like staying in bed all day.
No, what they had to go and do was cook that big dinner, invite a bunch of Indians over to help eat it, and set a precedent that housewives have been trying to live up to for the past 300 years.
It's a custom that has been bugging me for the last eight years. Up until the time my own little Indians came along my husband and I never lacked Thanksgiving dinner invitations.
First it was my mother, then it was his mother. After moving from family commuting distance, we relied on friends who invariably figured, "Two extra plates won't make much difference."
In 1962, I waited until the day before Thanksgiving for my post-baby dinner invitation. An invitation which for some mysterious reason hasn't arrived to this day. Disappointed but figuring I could do what any other excellent cook could do, I blithely ordered a 22-pound turkey and stuffed it full of dried bread crumbs.
Nobody told me that buried way back in that vast cavity was a plastic bag stuffed with certain supposedly edible innards — such as the neck, heart and liver. After turning my oven up to a snappy 500 degrees (I hate slow ovens), I noticed a peculiar aroma infiltrating my kitchen. Bearing no resemblance to traditional Thanksgiving day smells, it was about as tantalizing an odor as that of a sour dishcloth — only far more pungent.
My 29 cent frozen pumpkin pie had been hastily shoved under this smoking behemoth of a bird and I knew not even Mrs. Morton's baking prowess could save it from contamination. I had to find the cause of this eyewatering mess but first I had to carry the baby to an upstairs bedroom, fling open the doors and windows, put on my fur-lined mittens (I couldn't find a hotpad) and lug the bulging monster out on the back porch.
It LOOKED all right on the outside so I knew whatever was wrecking my meal had to be on the inside. I hastily chucked my bread crumb dressing in the garbage can (I knew it was too far gone for the cats to eat) and the farther I dug into that bird the more convinced I was I was on the right track.
By the time I retrieved that horrible little bundle of charred plastic any appetite the neighbors might have had must have disappeared along with mine. There's no polite way to describe it — that turkey just plain STANK.
My Morton pie was ruined, my neglected sweet potatoes had stuck to the pan and Herman was due home from hunting any minute.
If I hadn't had such a heavy baby I would have taken him in my arms and fled, like Liza, on foot across the ice (my folks live in upper Michigan) and never stepped foot in that reeking kitchen again. As it was, I chiseled chilled cranberries out of a can, heated a bowl of instant mashed potatoes, set two eggs in boiling water and prudently prepared to greet the mighty hunter with my child propped over one shoulder.
What he said, did, and threatened can't be printed in a family newspaper but at least mayhem was temporarily averted.
That was, as I said, back in 1962. Since then, I have only made the same mistake one more time (they do know how to hide those tricky little bags) and have gone out for restaurant dinners six years in a row. This year it's my turn to cook again. I know it isn't traditional but until they start slipping plastic bags in corned beef, Dinty Moore's special will hereafter adorn the Steebs Thanksgiving day table.
Courtesy of the Door County Library Newspaper Archive
Other articles by Keta Steebs:
https://doorcounty.substack.com/t/keta-steebs
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