Every Thanksgiving, when our family
gets together, we reminisce about the time I dropped the turkey. Well, not
exactly dropped, fumbled, better describes it. In 1960, my husband Richard and
I and our two children spent the first holiday in our new home in Lake
Hiawatha, New Jersey. We invited my sister Dorothy, her husband Artie Graham
who drove from Long Island N.Y. with their five children. Along the way they
picked up my mother-in-law, Mary McSweeney, in Brooklyn.
Before they arrived, my husband and I pulled
the dining table apart to insert two leaves and extend its length to six feet.
We placed three chairs close to the wall, one at each end and one in the
middle. Across these chairs we put a one-foot- wide wooden plank. Its length
matched the length of the table. That way, six children could be seated on
three chairs. The baby, David, remained in his crib. We draped an old bedspread
across the wood to protect little bottoms from splinters.
During the hustle
bustle of preparing dinner, my mother-in-law stood at the counter mashing
potatoes, and my sister arranged brown and serve rolls in a baking pan. I took
the turkey from the oven and set it on the open oven door while I got a platter
from the cupboard.
As if in slow
motion, the turkey and pan gently slid off the door and turned upside down,
right on my mother-in-law’s foot.
"OW,"
she yelled.
The men rushed in.
"What happened?" they said in unison. The children ran in.
"What's wrong, Grandma?" My mother-in-law hopped around waving her
burnt foot. The turkey slid across the floor.
"Cold water!
You need to put your foot in cold water," Artie said. Richard ran outside
to get a bucket and filled it at the sink. Artie led my mother-in-law to the
living room couch. Richard brought in the bucket of water. Artie plunged her
foot, stocking and all into the cool water.
I tried to rescue
the turkey but the stubborn bird evaded capture. Each time I attempted to grasp
it, it slithered across the floor on its cushion of hot fat. The vinyl floor became
an absurd skating rink for the footless gobbler.
Looking at the
drippings smeared on the floor, Dorothy wailed, "Now we'll have no
gravy."
My mother-in-law
declared her burn not serious. "I'm fine," she said. "Let's
eat."
"I can't get
the turkey off the floor," I cried.
Artie and Richard
to the rescue. Between these two grown men, with forks and pot holders, they
snared the reluctant bird and deposited it on the waiting platter. A quick
cleaning of the skin and voila! Happy Thanksgiving..
Mother-in-law Mary
weathered the minor burn to her foot, more concerned about her water-logged stocking.
The children, now grown, have children of their own. Although the younger ones
couldn't possibly remember it, they heard the story so often that at family
gatherings they will reminisce about the year the Thanksgiving turkey got away
and went skating across the kitchen floor.
L to R – Richard, Michael, Missy,
Maryann, Arthur, Billy, John. You can just make out my sister , Dorothy and I peeking
out the door
