Why Turkeys Make Us Stupid

Cooking a turkey, for me, is as easy as slapping together a leftover sandwich. I ran a film catering company and starting in the late ’80s, a few friends and I helped Sister Hilda and the New Hope Mission feed the homeless at Oppenheimer Park in east Vancouver.

By 1992 we created the Oppenheimer Park Christmas Fund and countless film industry volunteers squeezed into my trucks and served turkey with all the trimmings to hundreds of people. But cooking dozens of ginormous birds the day before was brutal—it was getting too exhausting to do it with just a few of us. Every year the numbers grew; by my 18th Christmas we were serving about 3,000 people, including women and children.

Then I had a brainwave: volunteers would take a turkey home, cook it, and bring it back the next day. That night, my phone didn’t stop ringing.

Amazing how so many volunteers didn’t comprehend the simple cooking instructions, written in English with a diagram, attached to every turkey in its tinfoil roasting pan. (In retrospect, I never read instruction manuals.) “How do I know when it’s done?” and “Should I slice it after it’s cooked?” were the most common questions. “Do I take the turkey out of the plastic bag to cook it?” and “How do I keep it warm?” had me gnashing my teeth. And if one more person said “de-thaw”… But I wasn’t alone.

In 1981, Butterball set up a Turkey Talk-Line staffed by home economists answering the same questions. One caller phoned in a panic, worried his turkey wouldn’t thaw in time.
“What state is your turkey in now?” the expert asked.
“Florida,” he replied.

Listening to the radio this morning brought it all back. Every year the CBC airs Dave Cooks the Turkey from The Vinyl Café. If you’ve never heard it, here are a few highlights.

Late on Christmas Eve, Morley asks Dave if he’s taken the turkey out of the freezer. Dave realizes he’s forgotten not only to thaw the bird—but to buy it. By 4 a.m. Christmas morning, he finds the last store open and buys a Grade B turkey, frozen solid. By 6 a.m., he’s using an electric blanket and hairdryer on the bird, and a bottle of Scotch on himself.

The turkey looks like it escaped the slaughterhouse and became roadkill.

Morley tells Dave to put the turkey in the oven at 1:30 while she volunteers at the food bank. Dave can’t figure out how to unset the oven timer, and every oven he can think of already has a turkey in it. Then he has a brainwave: get a hotel to cook it.

After another swig of Scotch, Dave checks into the Park Plaza with the turkey. “C’mon, Butch—we’re going out,” he says. To the receptionist: “I’m just checking in with my chick.”

Up in the room, Dave calls room service and asks them to cook his turkey.
“But sir, we have turkey on the menu,” they say.
“I have to eat this particular turkey,” Dave insists. I raised it on tofu and yogurt.”

The manager calls back. “Chef says it looks like this turkey was abused.”
Dave says it’s a fighter—tell the chef to stitch it up.

At 5:30 p.m., the turkey is delivered. “Shall I carve it for you, sir?”
Dave asks him to call a cab—he has to eat it at home.

By six o’clock, Butch is on the dining room table. Dave has one last brainwave: he smears the lightbulbs with turkey fat so when Morley walks in, the house smells like Christmas.

And if you’re like Dave, here’s a modern alternative, courtesy of The New Yorker: Taco Bell’s new Turkey-Loaded Crunchwrap with Flamin’ Hot Gravy. It’s a full-page ad, not a recipe—but at this point, it may not be the worst dinner idea.