Thanksgiving morning, 1973. The year I cooked my first turkey. I stuck my arm into the still half-frozen bird and pulled out a waxed paper bag of something.

Time to call Mom. It was 5:30am.

“WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO WITH THIS BAG OF SLIME??” I hissed. Somehow Mom knew who it was. Her voice was pleasant, if a bit groggy.

“Those are your giblets. Boil them in a pan of water for your gravy.” I hung up and tossed the giblets in the trash. The gravy I was making said ‘add water and stir’ on the envelope. No giblets mentioned.

I rinsed the cavities of the turkey and left it to drip on the counter. It was time to make the stuffing. 

Mom’s recipe was written in clear, 3-word sentences: ‘Tear up bread. Cook the vegetables. Add the spices. Mix it up.’

With the flourish of a sculptor, I swished and squished the stuff together, wondering when it would look like food.

“It’s too dry,” I muttered into the bread-encrusted handset.

“Add some liquid until it looks right,” Mom intoned sagely.

“Looks right? What is that? Will it look like Play-Doh when it’s ‘right’? Should I add milk or water?”

“Add some water from the giblets you boiled.” Uh oh. I trudged back to the stuffing bowl, peering inside like a motorist at an accident scene. I dumped in some tap water, then crammed lumps of the gummy mixture into both ends of the bird. 

I stood back and looked. Something was wrong.

My turkey didn’t look like the pictures I’d seen in Woman’s Day magazine, where the bird squatted on a platter with its arms folded under like a contented cat.

Mine had wings that were sticking out like thumbs.

“How do I get these little arms out of the way?” I heard Mom chewing something. How could she be eating when I needed her? I waited impatiently as she swallowed.

“You have to bend them under.”

I hung up, grabbed both wings, and hunched over the turkey like a Sumo wrestler poised for a match. By the end of a 10-count, I had won the pin. My shirt was ruined and there were button indentations on the turkey’s skin, but those wings were tucked. 

I flopped the bird into a foil pan and shoved it into an oven that had up till then cooked nothing but frozen pizzas and canned biscuits. Now it was time to wait.

By 1pm I was opening the oven door every five minutes, scowling at the turkey’s steaming flesh and willing it to look cooked.

“Hello!” Mom’s voice always sounded so happy and confident. It made me mad.

“IS IT DONE??” I spat accusingly. “IT’S BEEN SIX HOURS.”

“I don’t know, honey.” 

Don’t know?!? Why did she think I called? She was the one who knew. That’s how it worked.

“Check the drumstick,” she said. “See if it moves.” I poked at the leg; it seemed soft, I told her.

“No. You have to grab it and wiggle it to see if it moves up and down easily.” 

I yanked on the drumstick and heard a sickening, sucking sound as the leg separated from the rest of the turkey.

“Oh, great. Thanks, Mom. Thanks a lot. I now have a one-legged bird for Thanksgiving.” 

I heard her take deep breath before answering. “It’s done. You did a good job. Call me if you need me anymore.”

———————————

I have cooked a turkey almost every Thanksgiving since my mother talked me through that first lopsided bird. Each year, I found myself dialing her number for advice; calling less often and speaking more tenderly with each passing holiday.

The year before Mom died, I only called once in the gray dawn of Thanksgiving. She would be coming over later that day to eat with her children and grandchildren, as always, and I had everything under control.

But it didn’t seem like Thanksgiving until I pushed the buttons that brought the sweet voice of experience and patience and love into my kitchen.

“It’s in, Mom.”

“It’ll be great, Robin. You always make a terrific turkey.”

Thanks, Mom. Thanks a lot.