Bambi vs.Tofurkey

Being the family vegetarians, we are never high on anyone’s list to host a Thanksgiving dinner. Last year was different. My wife was convinced that it should be our turn. She assured me that, despite us being vegetarians for thirty years, she was highly skilled in the ways of a carnivore kitchen. Confidently adding that, after years of watching her mother sweat like a pig every Thanksgiving preparing their turkey, she was quite capable of cooking one from scratch.

Both of our families were just-knock-the-horns-off-and-serve-it-up meat eaters. The thought of us hosting Thanksgiving gave them the willies. They were positive we would shove a photo of Bambi in their faces while force-feeding them spongy tofurkey molded into shapes of barn animals. Persuading them otherwise took some doing. I threw in, “It was the gathering of family that is most important to us.” Of course, no one believed that, since everyone in both of our families are agoraphobics and first class recluses. Getting them out of their houses for any event was only possible if we threatened to stand in their front yards and yodel the Greek alphabet.

To put them at ease with the whole vegan vs. carnivore thing, I explained our view was not altogether about not harming animals. Rather, it was for our health as to why we chose not to eat meat.  Spicing things up to make my story sound more convincing, I added; “Why, I would go out of my way for the opportunity to run down a feral bobcat or slam into a stray deer on the open highway." The deer part seemed to do the trick.

Still fearing a vegan onslaught, they arrived with more food than they were assigned. Aunt Velma just happened to bring along some extra turkey breast and five pounds of sliced ham; in case what we had wasn’t enough. I thought, enough for whom, half the planet?  Our countertop looked like a full-serve butcher shop. One of our guests, who worried we might serve tofu infused margarine, brought her own butter.

“Jim won’t eat his rolls or mashed potatoes without real butter.”

“Really? You brought your own butter? We have real butter!”

“But Jim said you don’t eat anything that once had a face.”

“Our butter was the faceless variety. It comes from anonymous cows.” 

This puzzled her enough to end our discussion.

Cooking of the turkey went smoothly, as my wife had promised; smirking and reminding me that she learned her turkey cooking skills by watching her mom. However, apparently, she was out having cookies and milk during some portion of the process. We discovered the missing step when she began digging out the stuffing she’d so diligently jammed inside the turkey’s hollowed out innards. She screamed when, along with the stuffing, came a paper bag filled with bloody, half-cooked giblets and other slimy entrails. In between the laughter, we learned from the carnivores that these little bonus tidbits should have been removed and cooked separately before the stuffing went inside.

After the meal, we discovered that dividing up the left overs was like negotiating with a roomful of hungry condors.

"Don’t you dare throw that turkey carcass into the trash! I can make soup with it."

"What? You’re thinking about making soup, now?  We all just ate enough food to feed half of North Korea."

"Is this ALL the meat that was left over? I only have enough for one meal."

"Here, wait. Let me go out back and trap a beaver for you and you can take that," I snapped.

“Who gets to take home the left over rolls? Doreen took them last year. I think it’s only fair I take them this year.”

In the end, I used a turkey leg bone like a cattle prod to get them out to the front door and on their way. We spent the rest of our evening in quiet solitude practicing our yodeling.