One of the things I’m thankful for this 2020 year is that, at least, I’m not an undercooked turkey. Such a creature is not to be desired. And if you ever want to have dinner guests again, avoid presenting one to them. Undercooked turkey is not a popular main course to serve at your Thanksgiving day feast. Of course, an exception might be if the guest is your worst enemy.

I never roast turkeys anymore, but it’s not because of my humanitarian zeal. It’s just that I think Emergency Rooms should be avoided during the busy holiday season when the staff is already overworked and don’t have time to mop up all those bodily fluids.

And, anyway, what happened wasn’t really my fault. Let me explain. There are those who believe I should never be allowed in the kitchen without vigilant supervision, but at our house, Thanksgiving is always an exception. This is because there is only one non-football fan in the family and it’s me. Everybody else is busy enjoying football, while I’m out in the kitchen — the heroic martyr – slaving for 18 hours of cooking in order for the fans to inhale the meal in the 12 minutes of half-time.

As an improvisational cook, I usually use the smoke alarm for a timer, and when the neighbors hear it going off, no one ever calls the fire department because they know that Mrs. Ford is cooking again. My family was always accustomed to servings which could be described as extremely well done, They put up with it more or less patiently because it’s either that or cornflakes. Actually, I myself don’t enjoy eating burnt food either. That may be why what happened happened.

It was our first Thanksgiving in our house on Capitol Hill here in Seattle, and our good friends, the Quints, were our first dinner guests. While I had cremated a lot of meat in my time at the stove, I had never actually roasted a turkey before. And I did. I even stuffed it with real bread stuffing with chopped celery, onions, poultry seasoning and other ingredients I was pretty sure were edible.

I was pleased with how it looked roasting in the oven, and while everybody was drinking beer and hollering cheers and curses at the TV in the family room, I was very busy carefully basting the bird to perfection. I didn’t own a meat thermometer – (fortunately I didn’t think of using the rectal thermometer) – but I was thrilled to see the nicely browned exterior sizzling in all its glory. It looked downright appetizing, a nice change from the charred, dried out, smoking meat I usually served. So that’s when and why I did it. I turned the oven off.

The football game continued on and on to its interminable end, and finally all the Fords (there were only 7 of us in the family by then) and the Quints (6 of them) all sat down to partake of the mighty feast the guest mom and I had jointly presented. The piece de resistance of course, was the big majestic platter bearing the roasted turkey. With a mighty flourish, husband Gene picked up the carving knife and fork and proceeded to attempt to slice off a drumstick. And sliced some more. Finally, he was able to saw off the leg in all its oozing salmonella pink glory.

Now, as the cook, I still feel that the diners’ reaction to the blood and gore was a bit overstated, but I did acknowledge that my less-than-roasted turkey failed to be a less than thrilling culinary experience. Perhaps this is where the term “Cold Turkey” originated.

It was years before another turkey ever crossed our threshold, which was fine with me because I don’t even like turkey. Especially as leftovers.

But enough about turkeys. All jesting aside, we all know that isn’t what Thanksgiving is all about. It isn’t about food, or football or even partying with family and friends. Or about being the day before Black Friday to kick off the Christmas shopping frenzy.

One day last week, a family friend posted this on his Facebook and it’s been echoing in my head ever since. This is it:

“Years ago, anthropologist Margaret Mead was asked by a student what she considered to be the first sign of civilization in a culture. The student expected Mead to talk about fishhooks or clay pots or grinding stones. But no. Mead said that the first sign of civilization in an ancient culture was a femur (thighbone) that had been broken and then healed.

Mead explained that in the animal kingdom, if you break your leg, you die. You cannot run from danger, get to the river for a drink or hunt for food. You are meat for prowling beasts. No animal survives a broken leg long enough for the bone to heal.

A broken femur that has healed is evidence that someone has taken time to stay with the one who fell, has bound up the wound, has carried the person to safety and has tended the person through recovery. Helping someone else through difficulty is where civilization starts, Mead said.

“We are at our best when we serve others. Be civilized.- Ira Byock.”

So I guess that’s what I’m most grateful for – that we have each other. Besides our families and friends, we have caregivers, soldiers, police, firefighters, teachers, legislators, and even politicians, who one way or another, rightly or wrongly, are struggling to help us stay safe and able to live in peace on our spectacular planet.

Aside from that all that philosophy though, I would still like to apologize to any turkeys whom I may have murdered and abused in my past life. I promise to never cook any of you ever again.