Thanksgiving, Night of the Monster Turkey

It's my favorite holiday. I think because it's about family, friends, and feasting, three of my favorite things. I love gathering in the kitchen and gossiping while cooking and drinking wine.

Last year I hosted my first German Thanks- giving. I was anxious about finding traditional native North American foods on this side of the Atlantic, so I found an online shop catering to ex-pats. I ordered canned pumpkin, canned cranberries, and Stove Top stuffing (hey, that's an indigenous food). I ordered a turkey from the butcher for pickup Friday night. I was so excited I even arranged a radio interview in Wisconsin about this post-cold-war moment sharing Thanksgiving with Germans and Russians...but that's another story. Saturday morning I found myself with no turkey, no pumpkin, no cranberries, and 20 people coming for dinner.

Luckily Andrew and his friends arrived from Frankfurt, and they told me to relax. Ok, plus I went to yoga class. But sure enough, the butcher got an emergency Saturday delivery, and we found fresh pumpkin and cranberries right there in the market. Note to self: look under your nose before going online shopping. Unless you want Stove Top stuffing.

So we got to chopping and boiling and mashing, and just four hours later had a feast fit for 50. By the time all the guests arrived with food, we could barely fit it all in the kitchen. Oleg, Lillia, Larisa and Wyly brought their kids, who managed to steal Andrew´s hat and hide it in my underwear drawer in between courses. Everyone stuffed themselves, and I had enough to bring to my office on Monday to give my colleagues the most authentic taste of Thanksgiving - leftovers.

This year was etwas ganz anderes, completely different. First, Frau Johann re- membered me at the butcher's and promised there would be no last minute crisis. She took my order for an 8-9 kilo (16-18 pound) bird, and promised that someone would call and confirm. Sure enough, the head butcher called, but he had unfortunate news. The farm had no birds of that size. I could either have a turkey of up to 6 kilos, or 12-15 kilos. At this point I entered crisis aversion mode. Any large bird would be better than none. I did not do any math to calculate that a 12 kilo bird is in fact 24 pounds of meat. Nor did I ask the price. "Ok, a 12 kilo turkey is good," I said in my kinder-Deutsche. "As long as it is ready on Friday night."

Confident from my last-minute shopping success last year, I didn't buy anything in advance. I even said "sure!" when a German friend offered to make the pumpkin pie. This drew some raised eyebrows from Americans, but it turned out to be one of the highlights of the meal. I strolled down to the butcher on Friday evening with my backpack-style suitcase and no worries. So when Frau Johann emerged from the cooler with a cardboard box the size of a filing cabinet, I jumped back in surprise. "For me?" I sputtered.

Oh, ja. She opened the box to reveal the largest, fattest turkey I have ever seen. It was the size of a small child. It's thighs were as big as footballs. Clearly we were honored with the king of the barnyard. I envisioned myself leaning on the oven door and securing it shut with a bungee cord. Another worker came out from the back to check out the scene. "It's 15.64 kilos!" she announced proudly. I gasped. That´s over 34 pounds. Then I caught sight of the sales ticket. The price was €125. My jaw hit the floor and I began backing away, making whimpering noises.

A kindly German man observed me flailing away from the turkey and spoke to me in English. "Is that yours? Do you need help?" I replied that I thought I had a clear grasp of the situation, but I might need to negotiate. Over the next twenty minutes, Frau Johann brought the manager on duty to speak to me, and he in turn phoned up the head butcher to decide what should be done. Finally he came back and smiled. "You don't have to pay for it," he said. A vision flashed before my eyes, a table full of food, with an empty spot in the middle where the turkey should be. "There are frozen turkeys over there if want a smaller one. Or, if you like, we can cut it half."

I did a double-take, but my extraordinarily patient German translator assured me that yes, he really had offered to attack the monster with a table saw. "Ah, ich brauche ein minute," I said, and thanked everyone. The frozen turkeys were considerably more affordable, but seemed puny and plastic by comparison. Consultation was called for. I called Loren, who said, "hey, we grew up on Butterball, the frozen one will be fine." But defrosting is such an unpleasant way to begin a meal. I needed a second opinion. "Oh, get the fresh one, it will be something special!" said Ed. My thoughts exactly.

And so I walked proudly home with half a monster turkey in my suitcase. I took Loren´s suggestion of 'brining' the turkey, that is, soaking it in salt water overnight. The internet said to use 1 cup of salt per pound of turkey, umm, 18 cups. So I rushed out the door to buy a mountain of salt. Oops! The door swung shut, separating me from my keys. After more adrenaline, half a dozen phone calls, forty minutes and €90 later, I was reunited with my keys by a man with a handy wire and a business card. Note to self: all I need to earn quick cash money in Germany is a car, a piece of wire, and the title Schlüsseldienst, or key service.

After the turkey had his overnight saltbath, I tried to fit him in a 10-gallon oven roasting pan. No go. He kicked his leg out defiantly, refusing to go under the lid. I maneuvered the pan carefully into the oven and twisted it around to find the precise angle at which the door would shut. But his leg still pressed up against the door, as if trying to kick it open. Finally, a lovely aroma filled the apartment all afternoon.

The American crew and Larisa arrived from Berlin and we did some chaotic shopping. Ed mixed up soothing gin-and-tonics while we took turns using the one chopping knife, one stewpot and one saute pan in my kitchen. Adrian and Jessica threw themselves into the vegetables so enthusiastically that she forgot to prepare the turkey-alternative tofu dish. I think I drove Larisa crazy by ordering her to chop the oranges just so and melt more butter. Loren, Yvonne, and Andrea appeared like three angels with hot vegetables and whiskey. One by one my German guests called to say, "the dish is still in the oven!" So we found ourselves in a national role reversal, with all the Americans punctual, and all the Germans arriving late. Americans know about these timing problems on Thanksgiving.

Nevertheless, Stef and Jens-Martin arrived with delicious creamy scalloped potatoes, and Henning and Silke with beautiful artistic pumpkin pies. Everyone tucked in. My giant turkey got 15 thumbs up. He was looking lean when Christof, Tina and Max showed up, the last late arrivals. They inhaled dinner, muttering something about finger food at a conference in between gulps. The next morning I found a pile of soup bones with a couple of morsels hanging on underneath. Note to self: never leave a turkey unguarded among a pack of ravenous Germans if you want leftovers.

After many refills, we sacrificed the pies to the knife for dessert, along with Ute's apple crisp and Roger's ice cream. Jens-Martin was thrilled to get the jack-o-lantern. Then everyone collapsed in true Thanksgiving fashion. Except Larisa, who is a late-night rambler and hit the streets with Ed. Oleg and Lillia called from St. Petersburg to reminisce about last year´s vodka-fueled midnight ramblings, when I also locked the keys inside the apartment...but that's completely another story.