Better Known As The Thanksgiving When My Dog Humped
The Frozen Turkey
Also Known As The Thanksgiving When My Nana And I Drank All The Rum
Tis the time of year for the annual retelling of the epic Down The Hole Thanksgiving Story of my first hosting of our familyThanksgiving. Pull up a chair, a bottle of rum, oh, and make sure your turkey is most definitely thawing because if it isn’t, I’m sorry, but your Thanksgiving dinner might be a little bit late…
My first time hosting Thanksgiving for my family was, in short, a cluster fuck to beat all cluster fucks.
I had been married about a year, owned my first house, and had finished law school that year, so I was completely capable of throwing together dinner for 20 members of my family.
I was ready. I had procured the turkey the week prior, had made desserts the night before, and I woke up bright and early to start cooking all the food because if there is one thing my family can do well, it is eating.
My grandmother had driven up the night before to assist as my sous chef. We got up, had our coffee, and were getting ready to throw the bird in the oven. As Nana looked out at me from behind the door of the fridge and asked, “Love? Where is the turkey? Did you put it in the fridge in the garage?”
Looking totally flabbergasted, I stammered, “We don’t have a fridge in the garage. The turkey is in the freezer.” Because where the fuck else would it be? I wasn’t cooking it until that morning.
Nana, making bad, BAD noises as she shook her head and opened the freezer….
Nana: Babe, you have a 20-pound turkey in your freezer on Thanksgiving day?
Me: Uh, yeah. Is that a problem?
Nana: Well, not if you want to cook it on Sunday. Of next week. It will take that long to thaw out.
Me: Shit. Are you serious?
Nana: Yes, sweetie. Big birds take a few days to thaw. And please don’t use profane language. It is so unladylike.
Me: [Beginning to slightly, ok, HUGELY, freak the fuck out] Well, what the fuck am I supposed to do??? People will be here at 2:00 p.m., TODAY, expecting to eat a turkey THAT IS STILL IN MY FREEZER, TODAY!
Nana: [Thinking, as she pulls out one of the bottles of rum we brought back from our vacation to the Carribean that summer] Well, I suppose we could put it in the sink and see if we can get it to thaw out. Oh, and Sweetie? Where do you keep the Diet Coke? I think we are going to need a drink.
Me: It’s in the fridge. Behind the chocolate pie. Get that out, too, please.
Nana: Why? It will melt by the time we are ready for dessert.
Me: No, it won’t. I’m eating it for breakfast. And I need to think.
So, Nana, obliging, got out the diet coke and the pie and sat them on the counter. She then proceeded to extract frozen Tom Fucking Turkey from the freezer to bathe him in the kitchen sink.
Follow me on this journey, if you will. I’m pouring her a rum and coke when I look up and can see as she walks across my virgin kitchen that that mother clucker is not going to fit in my sink. So, what did I do? Why, I took a shot of Appleton right out of the bottle in front of my grandma, who had not so much as ever seen me drink anything stronger than coffee up until that point in my life.
Her jaw dropped open as she watched me chug all the booze, and then she went to plop the bird in the sink. I am pretty sure what happened next occurred in slow motion. That cursed bird bounced off the side of the sink bowl and onto the floor, where my charming, but stupid, cocker spaniel started trying to hug the turkey. No wait, that was not a fucking hug. That’s –
Nana: HOLY MARY, MOTHER OF CHRIST! HE IS HUMPING THE TURKEY!!!
[Edit: Nana now denies, after reading this story, that she ever said the words “Holy Mary, Mother of Christ, because we are NOT Catholics, and that she more than likely said, SWEET LORD HELP US! Note: She did not deny stating that she said the dog was humping the turkey. Cheers, Nana! Thanks for the clarification.]
I spit some extremely tasty rum out of my mouth onto the floor and took in the sight of my grandma, and the frozen, now violated bird. I lunged to save what was left of Tom’s virginity and scooped the defiled fowl off of the floor. And that’s where I made the mistake of the day. I sat down the bottle of rum.
Nana, who was clearly in shock at seeing a cocker spaniel doing it doggy style with her dinner, scooped that bottle of amber goodness up and started chugging, too.
After I caught my breath (thank God I hadn’t had kids yet, or we would be cleaning even more of a mess off of the floor) from laughing so hard I was crying, I came up with the most epically brilliant idea I had ever had up to that point in my life.
Me: I’VE GOT IT!
Nana: You’ve got what? Because I think your dog may have just given our dinner the clap.
Me: No! Really! I know what to do!
Nana: [Handing me the bottle of rum back] What? Do they deliver pizza on Thanksgiving?
Me: No! Follow me.
No good idea is ever preceded by those words.
But, she followed. And I led the Macy’s Parade to my bathroom, where I proceeded to plunk Tom into the jacuzzi tub and fill that bitch up with warm water and turn the jets on.
Nana: Bathing the turkey in the jacuzzi is not going to get rid of the dog jizz.
Me: Nana! He didn’t jizz on the bird. First. It still has its wrapper on. Second, if he did it that fast, it’s no wonder the bitches aren’t impressed with his stamina. We are going to THAW this bird by noon.
She looked at me skeptically, and I don’t know why. I had a newly minted doctorate degree in making pop tarts. I could handle this shit.
So, we walked back out to the kitchen and pulled up the bar stools and dug into our pie while we waited.
About an hour later, we went to check Tom’s effacing and dilating and holy shit! He was thawing out. This brilliant plan of mine was going to work.
People, of course, started arriving early. My sister (known as my Swan if you have been following me for a while. If you haven’t, what is wrong with you? And also, read my upcoming book – it’s all explained in there) and her boyfriend came in and my sister made a beeline for the bathroom. Long drive, you know.
I didn’t think much about it until she came back out, looked at me and said, “Uh, Swan? I really hate to ask this, because I’m sure it’s obvious to everyone else, but why is our turkey in your bathtub with the jets running and not in the oven?
Me: Oh. We are brining him.
Swan: In the tub?
Nana: No. We are thawing it in the tub because your sister forgot to take it out of the freezer on Monday.
Swan: Why would she do that? Wouldn’t it go bad by now?
SEE!!! HA! I’M NOT THE ONLY COOKING MORON IN THIS FAMILY!!!!
Nana shook her head. She had clearly failed at passing on the June Cleaver gene to my sis and I. Then she took another swig of rum.
Swan: Nana! It’s 11:00 am! And you’re drinking rum out of the bottle? Wait?! Is that the pie I asked you to make for dessert, Swan?
Me: [Through a mouth of chocolate cream and graham crackers] Um, yeah. Want some?
And I pushed the pie pan over to her. Bitch didn’t even get her own fork. She just took mine and dug in.
Swan: Gimme that rum…. So, are we not going to have turkey for Thanksgiving?
Nana: [As Swan took a drink from the bottle – see, I totally come by it honestly] I don’t know. I think the bird will thaw, but the dog was copulating with it when I dropped it on the floor.
Swan: Fuck it. Let’s roast that bird. Think he’s thawed yet?
Nana: I don’t know. You were in there last. Did you poke him?
Swan: Uh, no. Why would I poke the turkey?
Me: The dog did.
And Swan and I devolved into our normal, uncontrollable fits of giggles, because that’s how we roll. Seriously, we have our own language that no one in our family has been able to crack to this day. That chick gets me.
Nana: Give me that rum back. Go check your turkey.
So, Swan and I walked the walk of shame back to the bathroom and kneeled down over the tub.
Apparently, two sisters tipsy from the rum and pie breakfast leaning over the edge of a bathtub with a floating turkey enjoying the jacuzzi isn’t a normal sight on Thanksgiving. I now know this because my husband, my sister’s boyfriend, my grandpa, and oh yeah, add in my dad who had just shown up, were all crowding in the doorway watching us prod the bird and discuss if we could take him out yet.
Swan and I heard them laughing and turned around, just in time to hear Nana tell my grandpa and the crew….
“The dog was humping the bird two hours ago. This really isn’t the strangest thing I’ve seen this morning.”
I don’t know what was funnier. The look on my grandpa’s face when my grandma said: “humping the bird” or the fact that everyone just shrugged like they expected nothing less.
That poor violated, poked at, well-bathed turkey was the juiciest turkey I have ever tasted. And I am absolutely positive it had nothing to do with the liters of rum we put away before we finally sat down to say Thanksgiving Grace at 8:30 that night.
Happy Turkey season, Hatters! May you never look at a bird the same way, again. I sure as shit never have.
And, in case your holidays are as much fun as ours are, here is a DTH Thanksgiving Family Recipe to help you get through the next month:
Uncle Lampshade’s Holiday Punch*
(From DTH’s Mom’s Side of the family)**
Everyone brings a bottle of liquor of his or her choice.
1.As you come in and take off your coats, dump your bottle of liquor in the punch bowl.
2.Give bowl a stir after you have poured your bottle in, unless you are the first person to pour, because then that’s just playing with your food.
3.Last person in mixes in an appropriate mixer based off of the types of liquor (punch, soda, sprite, all of the above).
Proceed to drink until you see three of everything.
*Take everyone’s car keys and make sure the UBER app is installed on their phones when they enter the house.
**I never met him, but I heard a lot of rumors that my great-grandfather ran moonshine in Kentucky during prohibition, and said moonshine often went into said recipe. This explains A LOT.