Facing the Giblets

Sometimes it really sucks living far away from your family.  Ok, basically it is just on holidays when you are forced to cook your own turkey that it really sucks.  The rest of the time I am kind of grateful that my crazy Aunt Sue can’t just drop by to hand out condoms anymore “just in case you ran out dear.”  But on holidays I would gladly trade all forms of birth control for a relative who can cook.   

As I currently don’t have so much as a third cousin in the vicinity, this year, for the very first time, I was forced to cook my own Thanksgiving turkey.  Sure, this may not sound like a big deal, but to me the point of Thanksgiving has always been to be thankful that someone else had to cook that gi-normous meal so that I would be able to bask in the glow of my turkey coma afterwards instead of cleaning up for three hours.  Yet once again, Mommyhood cracked the rose-colored holiday glasses to reveal the devastating truth – It is now my turn to take up the Thanksgiving mantel or else have the holiday perish for future generations.  I don’t know if I am ready for this kind of responsibility people.

But, ready or not, Thanksgiving was coming.  So with hope in my heart and a cornucopia on the table I went out and bought (ok, got for free) a twenty-two pound behemoth of a Turkey, because, if I damn well had to do this whole Thanksgiving thing, I was going to do it right!  A pumpkin pie, a box of Stove top and a can of cranberry sauce later I was feeling mighty fine.   Then I remembered the giblets.

I really don’t understand the purpose of giblets.  I especially don’t understand the purpose of storing them inside a turkey.  Why not just sell them separately and save me the torture of having to shove my hand up a half-frozen dead bird's ass in order to retrieve something that looks like what an alien would give birth to?  So what if some people like to use giblets in their stuffing?  Why not just can your giblets and access them the way we were meant to get at our food – with a can opener?  Or better yet, just bag your giblets and put them in the freezer section.   Honestly, I don’t care what you do with your giblets, but don’t put them in my damn turkey!

I will spare you the details of the giblet extraction that took place.  All I will say is I am very thankful this Thanksgiving for Ziploc freezer bags and tongs.   After this stint in (what felt like) turkey gynocology, I admit I was forced to crack open a bottle of wine even though it was only 1pm.  Hey – don’t judge me - if you can manhandle giblets without being forced to drink, then you are made of tougher stuff than I.

With the giblets gone and wine in hand I stood back to view the perfection that was to be my first turkey.  Then I realized it was upside down.  Minor detail.  Upon flipping it over, I discovered the painful truth – I had a disabled turkey!  I had already thrown out the packaging by this point so I was unsure if it had been raised in the aftermath of the nuclear disaster in Japan or whether it was simply maimed by a rouge tractor on the farm, but my turkey only had one wing!  I felt so bad – think of the bullying it would have had to endure from the other turkeys – and to think I had ever criticized its giblets!  Well, I was determined to make my Charlie Brown turkey feel special by making it the centre piece of the best damn thanksgiving dinner ever!

With fire in my belly and the giblets in the garbage, I set to work.  By my hand potatoes, turned into whipped mountains of buttery goodness, gravy flowed like post-natal menstration* and vegetables of all kinds bowed to my every whim.   The cranberry sauce practically jumped out of the can, so eager was it to be part of this feast.  Finally, all was ready. 


*Editor's note: Your gravy flowed like what?? I don't think I'll be having gravy at Wendy's anytime soon. -Alice

I ushered my (non-extended) family to the table and presented them with the fruits of my labours.  As Simba threw his food gleefully about with reckless abandon while screaming at a pitch only mothers and dogs can hear, and Prince proceeded to eat three helpings of stuffing and nothing else, I realized that to my kids, this was just another Monday night dinner.  And what I truly needed to be thankful for was that my parents (and Edward’s parents for that matter) were not here to witness it, because if they had been, the only thing they would have been able to come up with that they were thankful for this year was living so damn far away from this craziness.  Let me tell you, when you have a male version of Shreeky from the Care Bears seated next to you at the dinner table it is kind of hard to appreciate the flavourfulness of your handicapable turkey. 

Anyway, as I sat amidst the chaos that was my Thanksgiving dinner I realized that Thanksgiving is highly overrated.  Maybe it would be more special if we were farmers and actually had a harvest to celebrate.  Maybe it would have been better if I hadn’t been forced to cook a turkey in 30 degree (Celsius) heat (thank you global warming).  Maybe, if we had relatives to distract the children, they wouldn’t have decided to coat their heads in cranberry sauce.   Who knows?  All I know for sure is that next year, if no one will come visit us, I am going to start the tradition of giving Thanksgiving presents, which I can use to manipulate the kids into behaving through dinner.  And hey, what kid wouldn’t love to get a box of giblets?!  Waste not, want not, people.

Happy Thanksgiving!

-Wendy