“The stuffing is wonderful.” “What a good job.” “Well done.”
The exuberant response from my extended family filled me with a sense of pride and accomplishment.
It was my father’s birthday and I had roasted a turkey for the first time.
I broke up the not too soft, not too dry white bread that would be used for the stuffing into not too big, not too small but as in the tale of Goldie Locks and the Three Bears, just right pieces. Pungent onions that brought tears to my eyes were combined with a lavish amount of melted butter, dry fragrant savoury and salt and pepper for a basic but well loved recipe for stuffing. A mingling, mouthwatering, melody of aromas filled the kitchen.
Getting the turkey ready for the oven was the next step. I followed what I had watched my mother do. Turkey out of the fridge and into the sink where I removed the blood covered package of giblets and the neck. The neck would be boiled and the stock used to add flavour to the gravy. The cavity of the the large, plump, hard to handle turkey was cleaned, dried and then filled with handfuls of stuffing, packing not too tight, not too loose but just right. I plunged lengthy, sharp, metal skewers into the legs and wings to hold them in place. Shorter skewers and white cotton butcher’s twine were used to truss the cavity and hold the stuffing in place.
I struggled to get the turkey into the roasting pan and shove the pan onto a rack in the preheated oven. Since I had no idea where my mother was, I had called my grandmother to ask about oven temperature and when to put the turkey in the oven.
My mother had driven out of our yard at noon to deliver lunch to my father and brother. This was not an unusual practice on a farm during harvest season but it was unusual for her not to return. Time passed. No phone call. No word from my mother. What had happened to my family? Would they ever return? These thoughts, I now realize were fuelled by earlier experiences of abandonment.
Hours later, when my mother returned, she was surprised, delighted and relieved to find that the turkey was in the oven and all would be well for the family gathering. When I asked “Where were you?”, she indicated that a part had broken on some equipment and she had driven my father and brother into town to get it repaired. When I asked “Why didn’t you call me?”, she answered that she was wearing a “house dress”, was not wearing lipstick and thus could not get out of the car and be seen in public. According to my mother’s rules, a “house dress” was what the name implied. A better dress and lipstick would be required before venturing out in public.
While I revelled and basked in the praise that was lavished on my nine year old self, there was a sadness that my well-being and sense of security were not my mother’s priority.