GIVING THEM THE BIRD

Most folks are eagerly anticipating Thanksgiving, talking nostalgically about family recipes and pumpkin pie. But I just can’t get excited about the turkey.  This is not simply because I have to prepare it.  It’s because I hate turkey.   Frankly, there must be a bunch of us, secret turkey subversives, who just nod and keep our faces even when folks salivate about the big bird on its sacred day.

If Ben Franklin had gotten his way, and the turkey had been selected as our national symbol, gracing coins and crests, maybe it would have been off limits as a food group.  No one I’m aware of eats American eagle. But somehow the turkey has become the edible symbol of our most fundamental American holiday. 

I’m daydreaming of assembling a holiday dinner this week that would be an all-inclusive, anti-turkey Thanksgiving.  What could be more America in the 2000’s than a melting pot meal?  A little sushi appetizer, some Chicken Tiki Masala (now practically the national dish of Great Britain), rice and beans… you get the picture.  Shouldn’t we create something that better reflects the cuisine of our country’s present demographics rather than retreading what some starving immigrants trash picked one late November in Massachusetts?

Sure, go ahead and toss your recipes at me, your turkey deep fryer, your perfectly browned breast draped with bacon, your whole garlic clove in the cavity.  You won’t convince me.   These Band-Aids are the equivalent of throwing a little KY jelly (or better yet Zestra) at the real problem; beneath that sultry skin, turkey is a mostly dry bird.  Even the alleged juicy brown drumstick mostly disappoints.

 

Maybe I dislike turkey because it’s the kissing cousin to chicken, which was forever ruined for me by my mother’s weekly skinless boneless breast dinners, incinerated and dehydrated under the broiler with a dab of margarine.   And then, if I had any hope of reconciliation with chicken as an adult, it has been beaten out of me by the countless frozen breasts with fake tattooed BBQ stripes that rest on lumps of rice or lettuce at every ballroom event lunch, banquet or conference meal.  Chicken is the go-to entre, the little black dress of mass meals.  

But, look, you say, look at all the fab accompaniments there are for turkey!  There are sauces and gravies, herbs and cranberry goop and citrus reductions.  Save your breath.  These only mask the issue, like feminine deodorant spray.  Be honest, a basic slice off the breast is like chewing through gypsum board.  The only possible way I enjoy turkey is a Thanksgiving leftover dark meat sandwich with fresh bread and lots of mayo (my husband would argue here for Miracle Whip.)

I don’t like picturing the farm to table journey of my bird.  We Americans don’t fancy the idea of getting a gander at where our food really comes from.  We’re more comfortable with the concept of shrink-wrap, dry aged, butchered cuts or ground meat.  But with a turkey, you can’t avoid imagining the living animal, even though by the time it gets to you, it more resembles an open casket viewing.  There it is, nude and embarrassed, hunched in forgiveness on your platter, minus a few extremities.  A turkey on the table is so… whole…. so intact. 

We all grew up with illustrations of hatchet-wielding pilgrims clomping around in those buckled shoes after the turkey.  As a child I was scarred by the tale of my mother’s family cook in Arkansas who wrung the chicken’s neck bare handed or chopped it off on a block while the rest of it flopped around a few seconds longer before collapsing.   I think of this image when I pull that old candy-cane neck out of the bird’s body cavity, where its been stuffed like some mafia message from “The Godfather.” And where do the feet go? What the hell happens to the feet?  Do they get shipped to China where they are considered a delicacy? Forget I asked, I don’t want to know.   And I don’t want to contemplate the image of mechanized plucking. Turkey feathers must be the poultry equivalent of a woman’s unwanted facial hair. 

 

Rolling my cart down the grocery aisle during the holidays, I am both repelled and drawn to the jumbled cases of plastic wrapped white skinned turkeys of varying weights, their knees drawn up in a yoga child’s pose. They look like a horror version of those Anne Geddes photographs and greeting cards, the ones with the naked babies in groups or dressed as single flowers and ladybugs.  Unlike the babies, the turkey skin has a mottled, bluish cast, all pimpled and dimpled.  It’s when I reach into the case and see the tiny pool of blood in the packaging that I ask myself what’s wrong with stuffed shells for a change of pace?  Why not honor the contribution of Italian Americans this Thanksgiving season?  Anyone?

By most accounts, the turkey is a mean, ugly bird.  And dumb as a stone.  Maybe anything that dumb deserves to die.  Evolution and natural selection haven’t helped it out any.  We have a pack of wild turkeys in my suburban NY town that claimed the median of a highway strip as their “hang turf” last year.  A hundred yards further and they could have had a nice little stretch of woodland to themselves. But no, these dimwits spent months playing chicken (pardon the pun) with the cars as they exited the interstate.   About every other week there would be a mound of feathery road kill on the off-ramp.   Honestly, any animal whose cry is “gobble gobble” is asking for trouble.

But like the turkey, I’m a big talker.  I dream about a turkey-free Thanksgiving, but I’ll never really take action.  My family wouldn’t allow it.  If it were my call, I’d eliminate the other colorless foods that have become a tradition in our family, my mother-in-law’s corn and oysters casserole, the stuffing and mashed potatoes, which will sit like wallpaper paste in our stomachs, the rutabaga, the white rolls and then the gravy made with parts that have been sitting inside the turkey’s ass in a bag (don’t get me started about the word “gizzards.”)  Once it’s been cooked to perfection it all looks like nursing home steam table food.  No teeth required. 

 

In the end it’s the ritual.  It’s about all of us coming together.  It’s about tradition, no matter how much I might daydream about a more sumptuous menu.  And regardless of the time invested to plan, shop and prep, my loved ones will clean their plates in roughly 20 minutes following the word “Amen.”

They will stand up, groan and stretch and return to their touch football game, their headphones and texting, their X-box war game or their custom couch indentation in front of the flat screen TV.  We sisters will clear and soak, load and dry, and lay out dessert, as unquestioning of the routine as the wives in the Bin Laden complex.

 

 

But none of us complain.  We love one another’s company, the addition of a displaced person at the table, the stray college buddy, the big city boyfriend, the sense of completion that all of our chickees are back in the nest for this long weekend and we get to mother the whole lot.  And for one day, at least, turkey and all, the world feels in its place.

 

Happy Thanksgiving!

 

 

 

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Did you kiss a Vet today?

On Veteran's Day we honored those who have served in all branches, all conflicts and all points in our nation's history.   As the wars wind down in Iraq and Afghanistan, thousands of young men and women and their families are working to transition back to the lives they enjoyed before deployment and injury. You can help by texting to donate (Text- BWF to 50555 to donate $10) or going to Remind.org/donate-today.

Enjoy the Live Stream of Stand Up For Heroes, 2012! Here

Lee and Bob at Stand Up For Heroes, 2012.

John Mayer at Stand Up For Heroes, 2012.

The Roger Waters and the Music Corps at Stand Up For Heroes, 2012.

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My So-Called Glamorous Life

Every week I toggle between two worlds. There’s the “suburban mom” in sweats and the Manhattan me in heels, however, I should mention, they’re often stuffed in my backpack as I hoof around the city. Although I live outside of New York, my work and part of my social life is in Manhattan. I’m an advocate for veterans’ causes (the Bob Woodruff Foundation), a contributor to CBS This Morning, an author, and, always, a mom. This makes the Metro-North bathroom, where I often transform into “City Glam,” the equivalent of a Superman phone booth. 

Here’s how a typical day goes when I’m on the morning show:

I jump into a town car at 5:45am with wet hair and slits for eyes. As soon as I arrive at the studio, the CBS makeup magicians get to work spackling my face (which takes a little extra effort at my age). In order to keep me from looking like a blind lab rat, they add false eyelashes that—once I’ve left the studio and am back in natural light—give me a “tranny” look and cause me to have to explain at every successive meeting why I’m made up like Phyllis Diller. 

After the show, I duck into a deli and order a three-eggs-and-bacon sandwich. The woman at the register doesn’t give my now-melting makeup job a second look—she must see all kinds of crazy pouring out of the various CBS studios. She stifles a yawn, and as I take a bite, the yolk squirts onto my boob like yellow blood. Great. 

Next up: a meeting with the Caroline’s on Broadway folks to discuss our annual “Stand Up for Heroes” fundraiser at the Beacon Theater on November 8.  Andrew Fox, the show’s creator, wants to talk about stacking the night with artists like Bruce Springsteen, Ricky Gervais, Jon Stewart, and Robin Williams. Not bad company for an old lady in sensible footwear. “Nice look,” Andrew mutters wryly, gazing at the sneakers I’ve already abandoned my heels for.  The crotch of my tights has migrated midway to my knees and they are wrinkling at the ankles, like the plastic bags my mom stuck in my childhood winter boots.   There is an occasional obstruction in my peripheral vision. Is one of my lashes coming unglued, or is that just my sagging lid beginning to impair my vision? Note to self: Get the name of any plastic surgeon except the one who embalmed Joan Rivers.

Working with Scott McMahan on our "Stand Up For Heroes" fundraiser.  

Noon. It’s time for some grits, and this gal doesn’t like to miss a meal. I walk to Michael’s restaurant on 55th and find myself outside the plate-glass window where the A-listers sit, in a public urination-like crouch as I swap out the Nikes for my city shoes. I remove the Mr. Rodgers cardigan I’m wearing over my dress, swipe on a little lipstick and brush my hair. I’m meeting with a magazine editor to discuss my newly released first work of fiction, Those We Love Most. 

 “So tell me,” she asks, leaning over her untouched salad,  “Is this book really about you?” Finishing a bite of my dripping burger, I give the reply most middle-aged mothers of four can relate to.  “If this book were true to my life, I’d have to add lots of spicy sex scenes!  And maybe even throw in some leather and a few whips.  You know us suburban Moms,” I say, as she sets her fork down with renewed interest,  “we’re as frisky as wild ponies!”

Cut to me and the executive director of our non-profit organization in the conference room of a Midtown investment bank. We’re making a pitch for them to sponsor our “Stand Up for Heroes” night. I’m 50 percent sure they’ve agreed to write a check just to get me out of the room, because by this point in time, the TV makeup looks like it’s applied to a Galapagos turtle and the bankers are staring like geologists studying a topographical map.

With one sponsorship in the bag, we take a Starbucks break. I massage my dogs and wonder how my chicer Manhattan sisters seem to spend all day in heels so effortlessly. I’m the one who gets the stiletto stuck in the subway grate when I try to copy the grown-ups.

It’s now the end of the day and I’ve crisscrossed the city to meet my hubby for a drink near his ABC News offices.  One fake lash is now half unglued and curled off my lid like a shrimp.  The other half refuses to budge when I tug.  I’ve learned the hard way not to mess with any of this industrial make-up until I get home to a hot wash cloth.  Anything short of the right removal tools and my face will resemble a Jackson Pollock painting.

Walking in the rain with Bob. 

“What’s wrong with your eye?” my husband asks, squinting, patting himself down to find his reading glasses (I’ve been tempted to duct-tape them to the bridge of his nose). When my pores come into focus, he recoils. I’ve firmly moved into Night of the Living Dead territory, but I’m too tired to care. He shoots me a sympathetic look.

We sip our wine and wait for the traffic to subside so we can head home. Somewhere north of Harlem, my head lolls to the side and I am drooling on my sweater. Next thing I know we’re pulling into our driveway. One of my twins gives me a hug with a skeptical eye while the other is quick to bring me back to reality. 

“What’s with the Halloween makeup Mom? I’m starving.” 

Welcome home.

Enjoying a hike with my girls.

An original version of this post ran in Oct '12 Manhattan Magazine
http://www.modernluxury.com/manhattan/articles/every-day-exactly-the-same

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