The Turkey That Got Away

by Holly Goldberg Sloan

Bertie and My Mother

Growing up, there was nothing more special than being invited to spend Thanksgiving with our next-door-neighbors: the Weisses. The mother of that house, Bertie, was the Martha Stewart of her day. Her parents were both born in Mexico. She was born in the San Fernando Valley. She married a man name Harry Weiss who was on a battle ship docked in Pearl Harbor during the attack. He survived and went on to fight in the Pacific and after the war, they moved to Eugene, Oregon, bought a mountain and made a living crunching it up into gravel.

It was our incredible good fortune to have Bertie living (with her husband and two kids) close enough to us that you could throw a baseball hard and it would land on their deck. Especially if you aimed.

Our road...

We grew up in Oregon with lots of trees, lots of rain, and lots of animals. Everyone on our street had a dog. We also had a goat. Bertie’s family didn’t just have a cat and a goat; they had two dogs and a pet squirrel named Rocky.

Playing under the bridge...

No one walked dogs back then. And no one had fences around their yards. You just opened the door and let the dog out. If they had half a brain, they’d figure out how to get back home. Kids were treated the same way. You’d leave when you wanted. They figured you’d come back.

Eating Thanksgiving with the next-door-neighbors meant that there would be lots of everything—and that it would be the best of everything. Bertie could cook. My family could eat. It was a great combination.

I have pictures from this particular Thanksgiving. It is afternoon. The adults all have cocktail glasses in hand. We are all dressed up in what we consider our fancy clothes. I’m wearing red suspenders to hold up a gray short skirt.

Waiting while pies are cooking...

My mother has on big hoop earrings and a dress that looks like it was made from a Gypsy rug. My little brother Randy is wearing a felt hat. My father, a professor, has a corncob pipe in his mouth.

Our tradition was to eat a big breakfast, skip lunch and get down with the Turkey at around three.   It was all going according to plan. At two-thirty, Bertie took the big bird out of the oven. It was the color of burned honey. Stuffing, crispy but moist inside, spilling out from the cavity.

Harry drained the juices for the gravy. Bertie, ever knowledgeable about cooking, took the turkey to the garage to cool. Ten minutes outside and Harry would start to carve. Our mouths filled with saliva.

The turkey was placed on top of the washing machine. Bertie went back inside. The garage door was always open. I think you can see where this is going.

While Bertie worked the stove making the gravy, the rest of us gathered around light-headed with anticipation. And then my big brother Tim called out with a kind of glee: “Our dog got a rabbit!” Everyone, except Bertie, moved to the big glass window to look out. We saw our black, standard poodle, Robert (French pronunciation), run by with the largest rabbit in the state of Oregon wedged into his mouth.   A maple-colored rabbit. And our dog was being chased! Four other dogs in the neighborhood were right behind him!

Everyone cheered!!!! The dogs disappeared from view and in moments they were back again. It was a parade—a race! They ran like pounding thoroughbreds. And then Charlie Cole, the Springer Spaniel who lived across the street, saw his advantage and snapped the huge rabbit right out of our dog’s mouth. The room collectively GASPED! The brown rabbit split in TWO!   And it was white on the inside! Wait, look closer!   My mother screamed:

“It’s the TURKEY!!!!!!!!!!!”

I see it all now, everyone is suddenly moving. A heavy rain falls from the sky but everyone is now out the door. Everyone is now chasing the two dogs that now have not a rabbit, but a twenty-pound, fresh-from-the farm, perfectly-cooked-for-eight-straight hours, turkey.

When the dogs see all of us they suddenly have a change of plan. It’s no longer dog vs. dog. It’s dog vs. man. They all dive on top of the turkey carcass and each rip away a large chunk and then take off in a mad, bad-dog, scramble. They disappear into bushes and brambles and beneath the house. They literally are instantly gone.

What remains on the grass is a single wing. A wing and some skin that once spread over a lacquered goddess of perfect poultry. It was a long time before anyone spoke. But two things were clear: there would be no turkey this Thanksgiving, and it was our dog that had led the charge.
There were lessons to be learned.

Side dishes are important. Like supporting actors in films, they often steal the show.   A turkey can be the star, or, if things don’t go according to plan, the star can turn out to be gravy and mashed potatoes, beans and squash, cranberry sauce and stuffing. Enchiladas are good on the holidays, and so are omelets. Garage doors are important, and so are fences.

The Univited Guest...

We weren’t invited back the next year.

Holly Goldberg Sloan is a writer/director of family films. She wrote "Angels in the Outfield,", "Made in America", "The Big Green", "The Crocodile Hunter Movie" and the soon to be finished "Heidi 4 Paws". Cooking, she believes, is like writing. It's good to start with a solid plan, and then be willing to go with the flow.

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