Well, it’s that time of year again: a time to reminisce about Thanksgivings past, and to dredge up potentially embarrassing family stories. Here is one of my favorites, back by popular demand:
Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. It’s a non-gift-giving occasion where my family gets together to have a big old turkey dinner, watch the Cowboys and Lions play football on TV, and go home happy and uncomfortably full. It’s really a lovely, relaxing day.
But more than anything, Thanksgiving makes me recall a bit of family lore that is sure to endure years and years of storytelling to come. I’m quite sure that when age-appropriate, my great-grandchildren will hear the now-famous tale.
On Thanksgiving morning, my parents traditionally share responsibilities for preparing the bountiful turkey dinner. Dad gets up early to wash and salt the turkey so that Mom can whip up the stuffing and get the bird rolling in the oven as soon as she gets up. Dad also has to peel seventy-two pounds of potatoes, carrots, and any other tuber that is on the menu. We secretly think it reminds him of his days in the Marines.
My Dad always meets his responsibilities without complaint, and on this particular Thanksgiving morning, he arose early willing to meet them head-on. He made his way to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, where he knew his worthy adversary awaited. He looked in, and confused, called to my mother:
“Honey, which turkey do you want me to use?”
No answer.
“HONEY! Which turkey do you want me to use?”
“The one in the fridge” replied my mother.
“But WHICH one? There are TWO.”
“There’s only ONE in the fridge.”
“Jesus Christ, I KNOW what a turkey is, and I KNOW how to count to two…”
Before Dad can continue, Mom is bustling down the hallway in her bathrobe, intent on pointing out the single, solitary turkey in the fridge. She peers in to see exactly TWO turkeys snuggling side-by-side in the fridge. While they stand there puzzling over the second turkey, my brother lumbers down the hall in his too-small-to-cover-everything-it-should bathrobe, giggling and looking very hung over. My brother was still living at home while commuting to college, getting away with murder right under my parent’s noses, or so my sister and I thought.
The night before Thanksgiving is traditionally the biggest bar night of the year. Most everyone is home from school, and you meet up with your old buddies for a few drinks, stay out way too late, and end up drinking way too much for old time’s sake. My brother is by no means an exception to this tradition.
My brother tells his parents (MY parents) in his low gravelly voice that he and a few of his friends went out the night before and ended up at the Magic Lantern, the strip club closest to home (a mere 23 miles away). They all bought a bunch of raffle tickets, and it seemed that you had to be present to win, and the strippers kept calling out numbers, but most of the other patrons had already gone home, so he ended up winning a turkey in the strip club raffle.
He won a turkey. In a raffle. At a strip club. Oh, well THAT explains why there are two turkeys in the refrigerator. That’s all. He just laid it all out like that. He didn’t make up some story and lie about where the bird was from; he fessed up right away. Nor was he embarrassed that he actually took receipt of this turkey when his number was called! Hey, a free turkey is a free turkey. It remained to be seen how many one-dollar bills were sacrificed for this “free” turkey.
My parents did not pursue questioning of how a minor was able to gain entry to an establishment of that sort, or how he’d obviously been drinking all night, or how he got home from the club. Nope, everyone just got a chuckle and moved on. My sister and I call this our brother’s “Teflon Effect”. It’s a lifetime hall pass for behavior that my sister and I would NEVER get away with. Everyone we know seems to live vicariously through my brother, and people choose to be entertained rather than pursue the how, what, and why of his adventures.
“Oh, well, we’ll cook the one I bought at the store, and we’ll save the other one for later” was the extent of my Mother’s comments.
When the rest of us arrived for dinner, we heard the whole story and were only mildly surprised. This was one of my brother’s adventures so it must involve a) a strip club, b) a state police officer, or c) bolt cutters. We all thought on the matter briefly, then peppered him with questions:
- •Are we eating the strip turkey now?
- •Was the turkey “used” in any way for entertainment?
- •Was it fresh or frozen?
- •Does it have one of those “pop-up” timers?
- •Did it start out frozen and then defrost at some point?
- •Were you the absolute LAST people in the club to have won?
- •How many turkeys did they raffle off?
- •Do you have to truss a strip club turkey with a “G” string?
- •Aren’t there state and federal laws restricting poultry distribution in strip clubs?
- •Are there tassels or pasties on the turkey’s breasts?
- •If a turkey started out Kosher, but ended up in a strip club, is it still Kosher?
- •Don’t strip clubs donate their un-raffled turkeys to food banks and homeless shelters? Weren’t you really taking from the needy?
The story has become lore in the family, not just for the simple facts of the story, but also for the purity in the tale. There was no subterfuge, deceit, or sugarcoating of any kind in its weaving.
For the record, it’s good to know that if you cannot find a turkey on the Wednesday night before Thanksgiving, you can probably score one at a strip club. Accept no excuses from those who can’t find one; they’re simply not trying hard enough.
Finally, for those who are curious: my Mother cooked the strip turkey the week after Thanksgiving and to this day claims it was the juiciest, most tender turkey she has ever cooked.
