I cut off that heart shaped appendage at the bottom of the turkey, and tossed it because my Mom used to. I never asked any questions. It could very well be the tastiest part of the bird. I’ll never know.
With the “butt” discarded, the next step was to reach in and pull out the neck bone. It would be destined to help flavor the collard greens. I’d looked for smoked turkey necks, but clearly, I’d waited too late.
All of a sudden I burst out laughing, as I was taking out the sealed bag containing the organ meats. I turned on the cold water, and let it run through one end of the turkey and out the other, until the water was clear—because that’s what Mommy did.
It’s funny how long gone memories can be triggered.
Years ago, my family was invited to have Thanksgiving dinner at the home of one of my parent’s friends. It was unusual for us to go out on a holiday. My Dad had a philosophy, however, that you took care of home, first. Whatever happened at the friend’s house, good or bad, would be assuaged by the gumbo, cornbread, and sweet potato pies that had been prepared at home.
When we’d all been seated at our host’s table, my Dad was given the honor of carving the golden brown turkey. It was at the center of the beautifully decorated table, resting on an impressive platter. My Dad stood up, and took the carving knife and a long fork. As he drove the knife into the center of the turkey breast, we all heard a strange rattling, crunching sound. He withdrew the knife, and said out loud, in his best Kingfish impression, “Hello there!?”
He stuck the fork into the bottom of the turkey, removed a few roasted celery stalks, and discovered the source of the rattling. At the end of the fork was the sealed wax paper bag, browned and crispy from the heat of the oven, still containing the turkey liver, heart, and gizzard.
All of the adults at the table cracked up laughing when Dad said, “You’re supposed to take this out!”
On the ride home, I vaguely remember him muttering to Mommy something about the necessity of “washing that bird”, and the reality that “you can’t eat everybody’s food”.
For years after that, my parents hosted many friends and relatives, but I don’t recall spending Thanksgiving anywhere else except home. There was no question about where the food came from, who handled it, or if it was “clean”.
I realized, as I picked and washed greens, and prepped the turkey, that I’m emulating my parents’ habit of “cleaning as you go”.
It’s been a minute since I’ve felt like cooking, and although it’s not the enormous spread that my parents used to throw down, it feels good to recall what I was taught, and even use some of parents’ pots and utensils.
I taste tested the greens, and used the leftover cornbread batter to fry a piece, just the way I remembered.
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