To All the Birds I’ve Loved Before

(This is an updated and improved version of a piece I wrote a few years back, sort of a Thanksgiving leftover. Like a lot of leftovers, it tastes better the next day.)

During Thanksgiving, a time filled with a cornucopia of happy wishes and family, we too often miss the true meaning of the holiday. At the risk of sounding superior, I’d like to discuss the very essence which so many have missed. Here is one man’s journey.

1973–My dad cooked a beautifully bronzed 20-pound bird, filled the cavity with sausage dressing, and dropped it on the table, accompanied by a fairy tale about where he shot his prey. I bought it. At thirteen years old, I believed the tale, but more importantly, I realized the meaning of life. It was (and is) warm, succulent turkey, wherever its origins. White meat. Dark meat. Drumsticks. Skin. Even the little white thing with the red button that pops up when it’s done. Call it Gastric Nirvana.

1980–I came home from my first year away at school. Melanie, then my girlfriend, accompanied me 300+ miles to my dad’s house. It was a glorious feast reminding me of a home-cooked meal, the best home-cooked meal ever. I gorged myself on white meat, a carnivore’s dream. Later in the same trip, Melanie and I broke up. Fortunately, it was two days after the meal. 

1984–I learned a hard, but valuable lesson. This Thanksgiving featured a vast pre-meal spread; I foolishly overindulged. Chips & dip, veggies, M&M’s, cheese & sausage & crackers…I ate far too much during pre-game. By the time the bird arrived, a spectacular 19-pounder, I had little appetite. I watched as others feasted on turkey, stuffing, mashed taters & gravy, and buttermilk rolls, the entire time ruing my youthful indiscretions. This experience taught me an invaluable and enduring code. NEVER, EVER eat within two hours of the grand bird’s appearance. This is a die-hard, ironclad rule. So important is this rule that I passed it on to a Hindu holy man (and his pet schnauzer) while we awaited a flight at O’Hare. Though a vegetarian who had never celebrated Thanksgiving (or any meat), he was so taken with my passion that he gave me a blessing, right there in Terminal 3, American Airline gate 24. Before you read further, write that rule down.

1988–Thanksgiving with two year old Mindy (aka, The Wolverine). Melanie cooked a wonderful gobbler, filled with sausage dressing, just like my dad made it. Amazing. She had replicated the recipe, so I didn’t have to go to California every time I craved the bird. On the down side, we now had another mouth to feed, another competitor for the succulent fowl.

1994–Melanie had perfected the art of turkey preparation. But another problem arose. I scanned the table and realized that Mindy (age 8) and Molly (age 5) appreciated Thanksgiving as much as me. What follows next, I’m not proud of, but the truth must out. In an effort to feed my turkey addiction, I began to lie to my children about taste and texture. Knowing their weakness, I compared white meat to cole slaw, which logically makes no sense, but you can sell nearly anything to kids. I also compared the carrots and corn casserole to brownies with hot fudge. Although not my finest moment…the turkey, oh my oh my, the turkey.

1997–In a bold move, Melanie switched from the traditional turkey to a turkey breast cooked in a bag. Although dubious at first, I converted quickly. And the leftovers were even easier to pick over. Times change, and we must not be afraid or too proud to evolve.

2000–After loading my plate for a third time, I had trouble finishing. A moment of panic seized me. Was there something wrong with the turkey? No, Melanie had cooked it to perfection (again). A tainted side dish? No. Sadly, it was me. My forty-year-old stomach was full. Over full, ridiculously full. Of all the horrors of aging, this might be the worst. Worse than wrinkles or aching back or getting up to pee three times every night. Simply stated, I can’t eat as much turkey as I used to. Across the table sat baby MJ with decades and decades of turkey consumption ahead of him. For a moment, I seethed, my face flush with anger. But then I put aside my envy and my plate and smiled at my protégé. Yes, he will carry on, I concluded. The irony? He likes ham far more.

2007–At a Thanksgiving dinner on the Springfield farm (Melanie’s side of the family), I sat with my father-in-law Harold. Despite the jovial atmosphere, our conversation turned to the hard questions of life. It began simply with, “Can turducken ever replace turkey?” Clearly, no, as it would diminish the integrity of the bird. The verbal intensity escalated. “Do you need, really need gravy?” We agreed to disagree on this one. “Should you limit carbs to maximize turkey consumption?” Do whatever is necessary, we agreed. We raised and quickly dismissed the issue of vegetables. Then some other fancy-pants interloper brought up what kind of wine should be served. We stared but said nothing. In the spirit of Thanksgiving, we simply arose and refilled our plates. I was older, wiser, fuller, all thanks to Harold.

2013–I tried deep-fried turkey for the first time. Although it will never replace the oven baked perfection I have come to love, I am not too old to learn, nor too proud to try something new. The skin is crusty and tasty, and the meat is moist. It’s a lot of work, though. But if someone offers it to me, the answer is YES. I take my cues from the turkey-aholic dad in A Christmas Story. RIP Darren McGavin–I got ya covered.

2015—Thanksgiving again on the farm. Dinner was preceded by a trek to the back forty to shoot a wide array of weapons, courtesy of Melanie’s well-armed cousins. They taught us the rudiments of gun safety and practice. Shotguns, various pistols (including a 50 caliber), rifles, and an semi-auto worthy of Call of Duty. By the time I sat down, my ears still ringing and my sweatshirt reeking of gunpowder, I was ready for a manly portion of bird. I ate like a savage pilgrim that day.

2023—We now celebrate Thanksgiving in Texas. The little ones are grown. The meal is a joint effort of Melanie, Mindy, and Dave (with Ruby’s supervision). Using a roaster instead of an oven, the well-brined fowl stews in its juices, joined now by a ham, bird and pig in culinary perfection. And if you think I lobbied for the ham just to keep others from consuming white meat…guilty as charged. The turkey is still accompanied by sausage sage stuffing and mashed taters. When I close my eyes, I’m home again, seated at that little dining room table in Atwater. And when I open my eyes, I’m still home, surrounded by family in Texas.

3 Takeaways: 

1. Politicians should never pardon turkeys. It sets a bad example, and you never know when a turkey shortage may strike. There ought to be bipartisan agreement upheld by the Supreme Court banning such frivolous, short-sighted orders.
2. If I’m ever an inmate on death row (and I don’t expect to be), nobody will wonder about my final meal. Bring the bird with all the trimmings before you throw the switch. I would want ice cream for dessert though.
3. Once you pass up a turkey meal, you can never get it back. If time travel becomes a reality, I’m taking that Delorean back to 1984. I’ll slap my other self hard and tell him to lay off the chips and M&M’s; there’s a beautiful bronzed bird right around the corner.