You will find short stories on this site. Most are autobiographical. Some are fiction.

TURKEY

Early in November of 1980, my wife, Maura, gave me a Weber smoker for my 49th birthday. Have you seen one? It is a large black thing, shaped like a monstrous vitamin capsule with legs. It looks as if it would lift off or explode if you were to come near it with a lit match. It has a steel dome lid covering the grill. There is a removable side panel through which you stoke the fire. It is ominous-looking and for good reason.

The gift was presented in a large cardboard box. It was too big and heavy for Maura to handle so it was presented to me on the driveway where it had been pulled out of her car. In the box, I found parts to be assembled. She proclaimed “Now you can smoke our Thanksgiving turkey.” Perhaps I thanked her for her practical gift. I’m sure that I did not say “It is just what I wanted.” or “Oh good now I know how I will spend the rest of my birthday assembling this thing.”

Over the years it has been my job to prepare the Thanksgiving turkey. I have become fairly competent at roasting one in the oven. I had no idea of how to do it in a smoker. So, seeking advice, I approached one of my colleagues at the office who had boasted of his meat-smoking prowess. I asked him about smoking a turkey. He rattled off a few facts about the flavors of various species of wood and the length of time and temperature required to achieve the perfect golden brown bird with meat evenly cooked and yet moist. “OK” I thought, “This sounds doable. I can cook a turkey in an oven. What could be so difficult about doing it in a smoker?”

As Thanksgiving dinner approached I learned that my niece and her new romantic interest were going to join us. I also learned that she had boasted to her beau that her uncle was a “great cook” and that “the turkey will be perfect”.

I worked out a schedule for when to start the fire, and when to put the turkey into the smoker so that it would be ready to eat at dinner time. All was going according to schedule. I glanced under the lid about an hour before dinner to see how the turkey was doing. It seemed darker than I had expected. I closed the lid and continued to tend the fire adding maple sticks in order to infuse the turkey with maple wood smoke.

When all the family was seated at the dinner table waiting for the turkey to be presented, I went out to get it. I planned to bring it to the table on a platter. And to ceremoniously carve it as the family anxiously anticipated the wonderful taste of smoked turkey.

I lifted that black domed lid to find the turkey was the same color as the Webber Smoker, black. Black as a rubber tire that had gone flat while crossing Death Valley in August. What could I do? I put it on the platter and marched into the dining room. When I entered with that charcoal carcass on the platter there was a collective gasp and then silence. One of the children began to laugh quietly, in a way that belied his embarrassment and empathy for me. I whisked the awful thing away to the kitchen. I cut away the black outer layer in an attempt to rescue dinner by serving the meat under the rubber. The meat inside the bird looked OK. I brought the sliced meat back to the table. As it was passed around each person politely took one small slice to go with their mashed potatoes, rutabagas, and dressing, all of which were cooked in the oven. The turkey wasn’t terrible tasting, despite a hint of kerosene marinade. When I cleared the table, I found that most of the meat which had been taken was left on plates.

The following week, at the office, I described my disastrous turkey to my champion meat smoker friend. His first question was “Did you warm it thoroughly before putting it in the smoker?” “No” I replied “You didn’t say anything about warming it. I took it out of the refrigerator where it had been thawing for three days, and put it into the smoker.”

“Uhh” he sighed, and said “It was not only cold, it could have still been partially frozen. Instead of bathing the turkey with smoke, the creosote from the fire condensed on the cold turkey.”

A couple of weeks later I learned that my niece and her boyfriend had broken up. I didn’t ask why. I was afraid to inquire, certain that my tar baby turkey had something to do with it.