And Then the Damn Bird Blew Up!

It was the first (and only) time my older sister and her children came for Thanksgiving. It was November 2001. This date is ingrained in my head for a reason that will soon become obvious.

In any event, I’d planned on being a perfect hostess, as you do. I cleaned as well as I could with two young children, and had guest beds and linens all prepared. The menu was done in advance, as well. Everything was good to go.

Isn’t it funny how at these times when you really need something to turn out well the most bizarre things happen?

My sister and her two daughters arrived the day before Thanksgiving. I can’t really remember what we did, maybe we went to the beach. This is hardly a salient point. So, Thanksgiving morning arrived, as it does when you fall asleep the night before… I began the day, as I do every Thanksgiving, with the typical sobbing over the dead bird as I rinse it out in the kitchen sink. As a vegetarian, this is a heinous task. There is a lot of “I’m sorrys” said to the bird and plenty of retching on my part. My sister walked in to experience this floor show of mine first hand. My husband and sons are well-versed in this annual exercise and remain as far away as possible during my penitential process.

She found me hunched over the sink with a bottle of beer beside me. It was 9:00 AM. I was whimpering and gagging. She pushed me aside and rinsed the bird, while making tutting sounds amounting to what an idiot I am, or thoughts to that effect. I continued to sniffle and snuff as she removed the bag of innards and the neck. UGH! Eventually the carcass was stuffed in its pan and I began the preparations for its descent into our ancient (and burnt-sienna-colored!) oven.

I should digress for a moment and give some background. Our house is old. It was built in the late ’60s. There have been no significant updates to the structure in all that time other than a new roof. This was years ago and at that time, the kitchen hadn’t been kitted out with new appliances.

Anyhow, into the hideously colored oven the bird went. I breathed a sigh of relief. The hard part was over and I didn’t look like too big a failure in front of my older sister. An hour later, she went down the hall to shower. I finished my beer and ruminated on my many faults.

Soon, as she was blow-drying her hair, we were treated to a colossal series of explosions, not unlike the 4th of July or a missile attack. I ran up the hall with visions of the Taliban standing in  my dining room. Had they been driven so far out of Afghanistan they sought to create havoc  in a small San Diego coastal village on Thanksgiving Day? As I ran in, many cats and a dog were running out with that wild-eyed, “WHAT THE -?” look animals in distress have. The explosions continued.

I looked into the kitchen and there was burnt sienna Old Faithful, smoking and banging away. The oven, which had lasted decades, had picked TODAY, THANKSGIVING DAY, the day my always-makes-me-feel-like-I’m-an-idiot older sister was visiting. This couldn’t have happened a few days before Thanksgiving, or a few days after, no. The Goddamn oven needed to pick Thanksgiving Day to explode with my bloody bird in it!

At this point, the husband lumbered in. He may have come due to my hysterical shrieking, I’m not really sure. Behind him, still holding her hairdryer, came my sister. Behind her, a combination of children, all equally dumbfounded and scared. The husband eventually realized he should unplug Old Smokey before all smoke detectors picked up on this event and contributed their own shrill voices to this Thanksgiving Day extravaganza. I watched him hunch over the beast and attempt to pull it from the wall. I would have offered assistance but if one of us has to die…

Once it was disarmed, we all gaped at the brown behemoth, billowing smoke and making odd crackling death sounds.

“I thought the hairdryer did it.” My sister said, brandishing the appliance as if it were evidence in a Conair trial.

I couldn’t have been more mortified if I tried. “What do we do with the bird?” I wailed. “It’s only been cooking for an hour!” After a series of back-and-forths, and a hasty phone call, I bundled the bird and the husband in the car and sent them away to finish the cooking process at the in-laws.

We strapped the bird in using a seat belt…

When they returned, everything was fine. The meal passed in an uneventful fashion, meaning nothing else exploded and I hadn’t poisoned anyone. Success!

Unfortunately, I don’t have any pictures of Old Smokey for your entertainment, so these excellent examples of 1960’s and 1970’s wallpaper taken just now from areas around my house will have to suffice:

This wonderful assortment of Brady-Bunch-on-Acid fruits and vegetables is in a corner of my garage.
Entire walls & shelves in the house were once covered with this. I call it "tequila vomit."

I wish you all a happy and stress-free Thanksgiving with your loved ones. I, once again, will be hunched over the sink, sobbing and apologizing with a beer beside me. Happy Holidays!


2 responses to “And Then the Damn Bird Blew Up!”

  1. My mother used to drink as she cooked Thanksgiving dinner, though she drank Dewar’s on the rocks (“With a teeny-tiny splash of soda!”). This may or may not have been the reason that she dropped the bird one year while basting and it skidded across the kitchen floor. Turned out to be the best turkey she ever cooked. Hmmmm

    BTW Department: “I finished my beer and ruminated on my many faults.” This sounds like a perfect blog post topic. I’ll look forward to seeing it soon unless, of course, procrastination is one of them. Happy Thanksgiving.


  2. I must applaud you for being willing to provide your family with a roasted turkey on Thanksgiving even though you are a vegetarian. Can’t the husband do the rinsing and removal of innards? (You could still have a beer.) Having you call it a carcass does take away my appetite a bit. 😀

    I’ve never seen wallpaper quite like your Brady-Bunch-on-Acid fruits, even in the sixties and seventies. At least it’s in your garage and not the kitchen.

    Another great post, Denise. Thanks for the laughs.


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