Rondo A La Turkey

“So. About Thanksgiving.”

 

I’m on the phone with Harrison, making plans for her trip back to Cali from Boston for the holiday.

 

“I’ve got your ticket, and I’m preparing to kill the fatted tofu. That’s a variation of a biblical reference,” I add, “Just in case you didn’t catch it. You know: the prodigal son, the killing of the fatted calf on his return . . .”

 

“You’re so mean,” says Harrison. “First, you don’t even raise me in the Judeo-Christian tradition, so I’ve got huge cultural gaps – which really handicap me in my lit classes, by the way. Then you show me up with attempted witty riffs on said tradition. You’re a bad mother.”

 

“You’ll thank me later,” I say. “In the meantime, we need to talk turkey. Have you spoken with your father?”

 

For the last ten years, since Harrison’s father and I separated (eventually divorcing), the three of us have celebrated Thanksgiving and the Christmas holidays together. Because our extended family extends across the U.S. and Asia, my ex, Makoto, and I did these holidays at home, ourselves, from the outset of our marriage. When we split, we each thought it unfair to pull the plug on the practice and the other, so we continued our nuclear family tradition, with only the occasional meltdown.

 

During Harrison’s high school years, her friends George and Lucy started joining us for our evening Thanksgiving dinner – George after her first meal of the day, and Lucy after her first or second. Dinner conversations were lively, and dessert time livelier still with as many as 15 or 20 crammed in my tiny living room as other kids dropped by after their families’ meals for pumpkin pie and gossip.

 

This year, however, Makoto was proposing a change. “I’m going to spend Thanksgiving with my girlfriend and her kids,” he said, when I called to discuss the dinner plan. “Harrison can come with me, or she can stay with you. It’s up to you two.”

 

“Oh,” I said. “Oh.”

 

Okay. Maybe propose is the wrong word. But of course one had to expect that things would eventually change, and I had, particularly when a new significant other came on the scene. I felt a tad sad, but we had done a good job of it, all in all, and it was time to let things move on.

 

“You mean, do I know that Dad’s planning on going to his girlfriend’s for Thanksgiving?” asks Harrison.

 

“Yes, actually,” I say, relieved. Yes, she tells me, they’ve talked – and she seems okay with the altered arrangement. “You know, I’m fine if you’d like to join your dad. I can make other plans.” I briefly revel in the thought of doing no cooking or cleanup whatsoever. Mmmmmm.

 

“No. Everybody expects Thanksgiving at your house,” says Harrison. “But we have a bigger problem. What about the turkey?”

 

“What about it?”

 

“Mom, you know what I mean. I’m really worried!”

 

“Why? It’s like cooking a big chicken.”

 

“MOM! Sacrilege!”

 

To understand Harrison’s consternation, one needs to know two things: First, Harrison LOVES turkey. Her preference for the bird pre-dates any thirst for mother’s milk, if one’s appetite during pregnancy is indeed influenced by one’s offspring in utero. I craved turkey constantly when I carried Harrison, and that gestational summer, Makoto often returned home after work to a roasting hot house and a full autumnal spread.

 

Second important bit of background: I haven’t actually roasted a turkey since my pregnancy, so Harrison has no memory of me ever cooking one. As far as she is concerned, dad = turkey. Always better with meats – heck, with pretty much all cooking – Makoto took over the turkey roasting the year Harrison was born.

 

After we separated, when I offered to host Thanksgiving dinner, Makoto asked “What can I bring?” To which I replied: “What about the turkey?” His agreement was swift and emphatic, and for the last ten years we’d feasted on some exceptional birds – some years brined; others herbed; once roasted on a spit outdoors over mesquite. These fowl were quite the bar-setting culinary experiences.

 

Thus Harrison’s concern. Before we hang up, I promise her I’ll do thorough research on turkey cookery, and we will have a tasty, juicy bird.

 

Harrison and George talk shortly after we do, apparently, because, within a half hour, George Facebooks me: Harry’s mom! Let’s deep-fry the turkey this year! They come out really juicy! To which I reply on her wall: HELL NO! Do you know how dangerous that is? To illustrate the point, I post links to photos of turkey deep fryers ablaze, sending 20-foot columns of flame shooting skyward.

 

“You can still have a deep-fried turkey,” says Takeo, Cyn’s boyfriend, a few days later, over dinner and in response to my questions about turkey prep. “Just order one from KFC.”

 

“He’s young; his tastes are immature,” says Cyn, a cougar and an outstanding cook. “He only eats gold-colored food. Don’t listen to him.”

 

A week before Thanksgiving, I visit with Joanne in Berkeley and bring her an old Coach handbag for her eBay stockroom, in exchange for turkey tips. In addition to being a rabid Goodwill hunter, she’s also a professional chef. She recommends brining overnight, and then smoking on the grill. She and Nathan regularly prepare 24-pound birds this way.

 

“Are you kidding?!” I say. “That’s way too much work! Plus, I wouldn’t know how to manage the heat on a grill! And besides, I don’t have a grill big enough! Come to think of it, I don’t have a turkey roasting pan either. Hey, could I pay you to cook a turkey for me and I’ll just come and pick it up?”

 

“You’re a crazy bitch,” says Joanne. “But I will help you. Let’s go to Goodwill and get you a roasting pan.” We do, and I’m that much closer to getting the turkey situation under control.

 

“Look,” says neighbor Kate, as we crunch through the leaves on an evening walk, T-Day minus four: “You want a moist, juicy turkey? I’ll make this easy for you. Step 1: Order a fresh turkey. Step 2: Take it out of the refrigerator an hour before cooking. Step 3: Stuff it. Step 4: Put it in the roasting pan, breast side down; cover it, and roast at 350 degrees Farenheit for about 20 minutes per pound. Baste liberally with butter every hour. Step 5: Turn the turkey over for the last hour, baste liberally with butter, and roast uncovered to brown the breast. Step 6: Check for doneness, remove the fowl from the oven, let it sit for 20 minutes, and then carve it. And there you have it: One juicy bird. Works every time. And no drama.”

 

“Okay!” I say. “Yay! We can DO this thing!”

 

So I call the grocery store and order a modest (fresh) turkey, and the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, Kate and I go together to pick up our birds.

 

A crowd has gathered at the meat counter. “We’re here for turkeys,” says Kate.

 

“The turkeys didn’t make it,” teases the butcher. “All we’ve got are pigeons.”

 

“Yuck!”  I make a face.

 

“Hey,” says a woman standing next to us, “Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it.”

 

“Eh?”

 

The woman nods emphatically. “I used to work in one of the Paly University labs, where we had pigeons – “

 

- I shoot Kate a raised eyebrow which translates as: Oh my, she’s not going where I think she’s going, is she? Kate signals back with a slight shake of her head: No, she couldn’t possibly.

 

But the woman does go there. “Those pigeons – the control pigeons of course, the ones injected only with saline – they were some of the most delicious roasted birds I’ve ever tasted.”

 

The knot of people around the counter goes silent. Even the butcher is speechless.

 

Kate coughs.

 

 “Well,” I say, “That’s one approach to brining your poultry.”

 

Back in the car, Kate and I laugh so hard we cry. “And it seemed so cannibalistic – like eating your colleagues,” I say when I can finally speak again.

 

“More like eating your subordinates,” Kate replies. “Which, come to think of it, happens all the time in the workplace.”

 

We’re still laughing when we part, bearing our turkeys back to our respective homes.

 

Day of, Harrison and I are up early and in the kitchen. Pies baked? Check. Cranberry sauce prepped? Check. Our turkey, at 12 pounds, really does resemble a large chicken, but a very large chicken, Harrison concedes. We follow Kate’s instructions and get the turkey in the oven. And then we make the other sides – including my dinner rolls, which, Harrison points out, are as essential a part of our Thanksgiving tradition as the turkey and quite possibly my ace in the hole with the man in my future. (“Aw, thanks sweetie.”) An hour or so before dinner, Lucy arrives, followed shortly by the girls’ friend Zack. As is tradition, all are put to work, and the dinner starts to come together. George shows up just after the rolls come out of the oven, and we sit down to feast.

 

The turkey turns out just fine. The sides are good, and the kids eat until they can’t breathe, so I know their compliments are genuine. We toast – to Thanksgiving, our annual extended family feast, friendship, Makoto, the rolls and the turkey. “Moms,” says Harrison, her glass raised, “I can’t lie. You really had me worried when you said ‘Basting? What’s basting?’ But the turkey came out great!”

 

Yes. In the end, it all worked out. There was turkey, even if Makoto was not present. And note: There was no drama. No houses burned, and no pigeons were harmed in the making of this meal.

 

The Word Wench weblog is a fictional memoir, and any resemblance to any person living or dead (you know who you are!) is purely coincidental. Installments are posted at whim, so please subscribe to RSS feed to read the latest, or join the WW mailing list by sending a SUBSCRIBE message to TheWordWench@gmail.com

(c) All Rights Reserved.

 

 

 

Change is [fill in blank].

“Change is (sometimes) good.” – the Potrero Hill Gang (TPHG), 1996

 

“So, where’ve you been lately? Haven’t seen you in a while.”

 

It’s my first incursion into the gym since I got off the living room floor, and Sam, a trainer in residence, beams a welcoming smile.

 

“Yeah,” I say, “I’ve been stuck.”

 

“With your exercise program? Can I help?”

 

“Nah. It’s been more of a mental-emotional-spiritual impasse.”

 

“Oh,” says Sam. I’m thinking he’s thinking “TMI,” but he surprises me. “You know, you see that in the physical world too. We see it here in the gym daily.”

 

“Yeah?”  

 

“Yeah. I mean, people end up stuck all the time. They’re in here, they’re doing their workout day after day, and they’re not making progress. They plateau. Or hit a wall. They get stuck. And they get frustrated or despair; they figure they’ll never see improvement.”

 

“Yeah.” I say.  “Hmmmmm.”

 

“Yeah.” He hesitates. “So, anyway, welcome back. Enjoy your workout.”

 

I nod and head over to the elliptical. And turn back.

 

“And they get unstuck?”

 

“All the time!” says Sam. “Sure!” His conviction cheers.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yeah. They change something,” says Sam. “One thing. That’s all it usually takes to get things moving.”  

 

“Change happens.” – TPHG, 1997

In times past, I’ve whipped myself into shape with action plans and to-do lists. This time’s different. I’m still moving gingerly after my blue period, following co-navigation by animal instinct and quiet self-awareness. I’m trying not to over-think or overanalyze, and when my mind gets all hopped up, I toss a book or some work at it. I don’t want to be lured by my thinking – which I know still lacks a certain clarity – into doing anything more that will take me off center.

 

How to move forward? I like what Sam said. Maybe change one thing. I consider what one thing that might be, and over the next few days, I find I feel like catching up with a few friends I haven’t seen in a while. I feel I’d like to paint my house. I’d like to find a new job. I’d like to visit my family.

 

I feel energized, and eventually I begin to act. And change happens. A little here. A little there. And suddenly, things are shifting.

 

It feels good. So I keep doing it.

 

“Change, for a dollar.” – TPHG, 1998

 “Wow!” says my manager. “I didn’t expect this.”

 

“I didn’t either,” I concede. I had just tendered my resignation, because I’d accepted a position with another company. “It happened rather fast.”

 

And it did. I put the word out in my network, and a month later, I’m changing jobs. “It’s time for me to go, but I’ve appreciated being here.”

 

“Well, I’m happy for you,” she says. “Things are changing at this company, and you’re being proactive. That’s a good thing.”

 

I don’t correct her. I don’t tell her that this just seems to be the right next step for me for now. “Thank you for everything,” I say.

 

“Change is different.” – TPHG, 1999

I take two weeks between jobs and accept invitations to fly east and visit Harrison in Boston and my family in Ohio. In Boston, Harrison asks me to join her for a film class, houses me in her apartment, takes me to work, and introduces me to her many friends. I am careful, respectful; I understand that she is offering me a rare view into her new life. Our roles reverse, and I stay in while she heads out for a party; they reverse again when she lets me play mama and buy her sheets and washcloths and underwear. I know it’s time-limited role playing – she’s allowing it only because I accept that everything’s changed.

 

When it’s time to part, I tell Harrison that I’ve appreciated seeing her in her new natural habitat, and that I am proud of her and the life she’s creating.

 

“Thank you, moms,” she says. “That means a lot to me.”

 

In Ohio with my family, I am daughter and sister and auntie. My mother and stepfather indulge me when I ask them to cook some of my favorite foods, and Mare does my hair and advises me when we go shopping for clothes for the new job. My niece and nephew clamor for the treats I bring, and my baby sister Lou, their mother, cracks me up when she dances around the kitchen as she did when we were kids. As is customary, I spot some item of my mother’s clothing that I borrow and pretend to covet throughout my visit. As always, she warns me not to try to sneak off with it in my suitcase, and as always, just before I leave, she gives it to me outright.

 

Before I go through security to board my homebound plane, my mother places her hand under my chin and looks at me. “Your face is changing, you know,” she says. “You’re becoming a rather elegant middle-aged woman. You’re wearing your life well.”

 

“Thank you, Ma,” I say. “That means a lot to me.”

 

On the trip home, I think of my transformations as mother, daughter, sometime lover, onetime wife. Over these last few months, I’ve revisited these identities, trying them on like one might treasured retro outfits kept hanging in the closet. But all the little changes have finally added up, and those identities no longer fit as my daily garb.

 

And it’s okay, because I am newly comfortable in my own skin, on my own, free and clear.

 

 

“Change is.” – TPHG, 2000.

I’m home again. Change is afoot. The world economy churns, a new president is elected, I start a new job. None of us know what comes next. But for now, I am unstuck and ready to move forward.

 

And so I do.

 

The Word Wench weblog is a fictional memoir, and any resemblance to any person living or dead (you know who you are!) is purely coincidental. Installments are posted at whim, so please subscribe to RSS feed to read the latest, or join the WW mailing list by sending a SUBSCRIBE message to TheWordWench@gmail.com

(c) All Rights Reserved.

A Little DABDA’ll Do Ya

I don’t hear the knocking at the door. Apparently, I don’t hear anything until that moment when I startle to consciousness with Zoe shaking me. “Wench! Wenchie! Wake up!”

“Ahhhgggg!” I almost jump from my skin, the adrenaline rushing me from sleep. “What the hell? Zoe . . . ?”

“We were supposed to meet for dinner tonight, Wenchie. What happened?”

“Were we?” I shake my head, still trying to orient myself.

“Yes. Planned weeks ago. You didn’t show up, and you didn’t answer your phone, so I drove by.” I’m focusing on Zoe’s face, and she looks concerned. “Saw your car in the driveway, but no lights on in the house. No answer to my knocking. You had me worried, Wenchie girl. Your back door was open, so I let myself in.”

“Oh.” Beyond Zoe, through the venetian blinds on the living room window, I can see that it’s dark outside. “Uhhh – what day is it?”

“Sunday evening,” says Zoe. “How long have you been lying on the floor?”

“Um, not long,” I say. “I was just napping.”

“Liar,” says Zoe. “The carpet pile pattern is etched deeply in your cheek.”

“I have thin skin.”

“So how long?” Zoe is taking in the unkempt hair, the sweats, the smeared mascara. She knows I’ve been here more than a couple of hours. I don’t want to tell her that I’ve been lying here, off and on, for the better part of a month.

“For a while,” I admit.

“And will you be here much longer?” she asks. Her voice is gentle, and it makes my throat tighten.

I take a deep breath. “I think I’ll be ready to get up again soon,” I say.

* * * * * *

I didn’t see it coming.

The events of the past year plus were adding up to an extended period of disequilibrium, and I didn’t realize that I teetered. I felt I’d been coping just fine with all the change transpiring personally, professionally, and in the wider world around me, weathering all, welcome and unwelcome both, with resilience and some sense, even, of doing my part for the “greater good.”

And it all seemed to work, until one day it just didn’t. Like the cartoon character who doesn’t see the uncovered manhole before the nontrivial misstep, I plummeted.

I was at dinner one evening with a few former colleagues, and the conversation turned from careers to personal lives. “Here’s one from the singles chronicles,” said one woman, Adrienne, and she recounted the tale of an acquaintance, Mark, a man who, recently divorced after a 25-year marriage, found himself in his 50s back in the dating pool.

Mark had gone out with a few women and then met one he liked – a lot. After a few dates, they slept together, and things seemed good; the next time he saw her was for dinner and the ballet. But something went horribly wrong. As he told it, said Adrienne, the woman joined him at the restaurant, but she seemed a little strained. And by the time they’d had a drink and the appetizers came, she was fraying. “ ‘Now that you’ve slept with me, I suppose you’ll disappear,’ ” she said. No, he protested; but she was not reassured. The conversation escalated, the woman’s voice rose, and the couple drew stares from other diners. “She was, suddenly, a “complete raving lunatic bitch,’ according to Mark.”

And so, after a few minutes, Mark excused himself from the table to go to the restroom. And he pulled aside the maitre’d, gave him $150, and asked him to show the woman home in a cab. Then he left the restaurant, and, as he had planned, went to the ballet. And switched back on his cell phone after the performance to discover the woman had left 30 voicemail messages for him, distraught, pleading, raging.

He did not call her back. In fact, he never spoke to her again.

“What a nutcase she turned out to be,” said one of the men at our table. Others were still shaking their heads over this tale of such out-of-control behavior when I excused myself.

My heart was pounding. I could hear the blood thrumming in my ears, and I felt lightheaded. I went downstairs to the women’s restroom, where I found a padded bench in a dimly lit corner, and I sat and leaned over, my elbows on my knees, my head down to help the dizziness pass.

In the end she’d turned out to be right about him, didn’t she? I thought. And I wondered how she would have told the story: After they’d slept together, did Mark’s ardor and attention wane? What else was said – or left unsaid? What were the specifics of this particular break for her? What past experiences haunted and goaded? How many times had she gambled on a lover – opening up, sharing her secrets, her bed, her heart – and what had she lost in the process? Time? Hope? Faith? Trust? And how much more can I bear before I am a complete raving lunatic bitch?

No more.

I felt suddenly and terribly fragile, and I wanted to get safely away, to hide. I needed to go home. Now.

It seems I was gone too long, and eventually Adrienne found me, still sitting in the corner of the women’s room.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t feel well. I need to go. Can you tell the others?”

Once home, I pulled in, closed off, shut down. I took to my bed and the living room floor, where I spent the greater part of the next few weeks.

* * * *

Of course I had to get up. Use the bathroom. Drink water. I occasionally ate food from cellophane and paper packages. Fed the cat; let her in and out. During the days, I worked from home, alone, the work rote and my mind otherwise occupied, like some toddler safely in a playpen while her parents deal with the burst plumbing or other household emergency. And when the workday ended, I returned to the living room floor or to my bed, where I lay, staring at the walls.

DABDA is the catchy acronym for it. The five stages of grief, that is: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. I realized that I’d done the denial, I’d done the anger, I’d done the bargaining. And in those phases, I’d used my words. Early. Often. Fluently. But there’s a time when words don’t work, as they didn’t now for me.

Words don’t work when we are feeling, bodily, the loss of our intimates – our children, our lovers and partners, our colleagues and daily companions, our cherished friends – and the loss of those relationships in which we have known those deeper, perhaps less-known aspects of our selves and another. There comes a time when we feel the full impact of their departure: the absence, the altered routines, the rent in the fabric of being where we were once interwoven. And it just hurts.

But all of these words, and their imprecise description of what we must feel (or struggle to avoid feeling), well, they come later, much later, when the wounds are finally healing. And the time it takes to cross from the one state to the next – from grieving to healing: It decides us.

In the evenings, during those weeks, I lay awake on the living room floor, watching the late afternoon and evening light move across the room until nightfall. I lay, dozing. I lay on the floor and listened to my breathing. Eventually I lay, not thinking, but aware that some animal process – some wordless thing that had served life on this planet for hundreds of thousands of years – was taking over, and I needed to shelter and be still and let it bear me through.

I slept then, finally at peace.

* * * * *

And then came Zoe, shaking me awake one Sunday evening.

“I’m glad you’re here,” I say to Zoe, after I’m fully conscious and have tried to explain to her what’s been going on.

“I’m glad you’ve told me,” says Zoe. “And I’m sorry you were alone.”

“I needed to be alone, I think. In some inexplicable way, this process has brought me back to myself. I have a baseline now: I have me, and here I am.”

“Ta-daaaa!”

“Ta-da.” I nod, although I am more muted. We both sit for a while, saying nothing.

“So, are you hungry?” asks Zoe.

I consider the question. “Yes,” I say, surprised. “For the first time in weeks.”

“I’ll make dinner then,” says Zoe. “And why don’t you go take a shower.”

“That bad?”

“That bad.”

In the shower, I stand and let the water run over me, hot and stinging, for what feels like hours. I listen to the sounds of Zoe in the kitchen. She is singing, and banging pans, and in a short time I smell bacon cooking. My stomach growls, reminding me that breakfast for dinner is my favorite. I am glad Zoe is here, even if I don’t have much to say.

I sit at the table, and Zoe sets down bacon and toast and a scramble of eggs and mushrooms sprinkled with cheese. She’s made hot cocoa, and marshmallows float on top. The food looks delicious and good, and the fact that she’s prepared it makes me cry.

“You haven’t even tasted it yet,” says Zoe. “My cooking’s not THAT bad.”

“These are tears of joy,” I say. “After a steady diet of crackers and American cheese, I’m beside myself with happiness.” I say this and I realize that I do feel good, and then I realize that it relieves me to know that I can.

We eat in silence, companionable. And the meal tastes as wonderful as the best I’ve ever had.

“So,” says Zoe later, as we put things away and prepare to say goodnight, “Are you ready to rejoin the world?”

I explore my heart gently, lightly. The healing is taking at the edges, but the center is still tender to the touch. “Not completely,” I say. “Cautiously at first, perhaps.”

“What feels do-able?”

What indeed? “Mmmmm. Maybe getting outside. Taking walks. Cleaning things up a bit. Reading. Perhaps seeing a few good friends.” I hug Zoe. “Especially if they come bearing good food.”

Zoe hugs me back. “Well then,” she says, ”Take it from there, Wenchie love. And just go slow.”

The Word Wench weblog is a fictional memoir, and any resemblance to any person living or dead (you know who you are!) is purely coincidental. Installments are posted at whim, so please subscribe to RSS feed to read the latest, or join the WW mailing list by sending a SUBSCRIBE message to TheWordWench@gmail.com