THANKS A BUNCH

Upon hearing about our robbery, W.S.’s entire family was so thankful we weren’t murdered in our beds, that they decided to exorcize all bad vibes by having Thanksgiving dinner at our place. I would cook the turkey, and they would provide everything else.

Our kitchen was very small, so when the oven door was completely open, I was pinned against the wall. I had never used the oven nor roasted a turkey, but how hard could that be? I jammed a 25 pound bird into the oven, closed the oven door and proceeded to set card tables with my best wedding gift dishes and glassware. W.S. said, “It’s going to be cramped,” and I yelled, “Cozy! The word is cozy.”

My in-laws arrived first, and my mother-in-law pulled sweet potatoes and stuffing out of a suitcase. Their car hadn’t started, so they had to take a commuter train and taxi. She said, “We had the best smelling suitcase on the train.”

Soon, aunts, uncles, cousins, and a few people I had never seen before, began to arrive. The men mumbled their hellos, and headed for our diminutive television set, which usually provided more snow than God, but anything would do for football. And, to my horror, the women all descended upon my kitchen. It was wall-to-wall bosoms, and I could barely move. When I shouted, “Help! They all thought it meant, “help.”  Happily, W.S. herded them into the living-dining-bedroom areas and gave them orders to stay there until the turkey came out of the oven.

Braced against the wall, I opened the oven door, and was greeted by a blast of hot air. It was then, that I realized, that jamming a cold turkey into a small space was very different from trying to wrestle one out of an iron box that is hotter than blazes, and if I used potholders, there was no wiggle room. “Everything, okay in here?” asked W.S. Seeing tears streaming down my face, he said, “I guess not. What’s the problem?”

“Can’t get the fowl out of the oven,” I sniffled. Seeing my dilemma, he said, “Not to worry. I can handle this. Where do you have the big forks?” I handed him the big forks, and he said, “Stand back.” Whereupon my dear husband stabbed the bird, yelled, “Ouch! That’s hot!” And proceeded to toss it over his left shoulder and onto the floor.  At that, Aunt Blossom started to open the door, pushing the turkey into the corner.

“Don’t ruin the surprise,” shouted W.S. as he began a door pulling contest with hefty Aunt Blossom who shrieked, “I used to diaper you.” I don’t know what that had to do with anything, but think it was s cry for respect. She finally stopped pushing on the door, and we placed the turkey on a platter---dusty side down. W.S. and I ignored the, “”Delicious but unusual taste” comments, and felt that our dinner was an unqualified success. But now came cleanup time. Not being used to washing dishes in a sink, Aunt Blossom snapped six stems off my crystal glasses. Uncle Meyer knocked over a lamp, but no one fell out of a window, so I considered myself lucky. 

While the women were yakking in the kitchen and the men were shouting at the television set, the phone rang.  “Hello,” I said. The only reply was heavy breathing. “Hello,” I repeated.

“What are you wearing, Baby?” was the reply. I looked at my dirty apron and yelled, “You schmuck! I have a house full of glass-breaking relatives, had to pick a turkey off the floor, and my mother-in-law arrived with sweet potatoes in her suitcase. I’m not wearing a smile.” Before I slammed down the receiver, I bellowed, “Call back later!” I think I ruined his Thanksgiving, because I never heard from him again.

Esther Blumenfeld

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006