Don't Fumble the Turkey

Mama always made it look easy—then she asked me to help

- RICK BRAGG,JOHN CUNEO

FOR MOST of my life, I had nothing to do with getting ready for Thanksgiving. I would wake up on that morning to the aroma of roasting turkey, and all I had to do was present myself at the table, more or less washed, and enjoy.

Just a few days before, that turkey had been an ice-hard, unappetizing lump, but by dinnertime it was golden brown, buttery perfection. I did not know all the work it took or the years and years of experience, and I did not need to.

We have a saying here: “He’s so dumb he could even mess up a Thanksgiving turkey.” I believed that was meant specially for me. I didn’t even like to be in the same room with the bird till the blessing was winding down. And even then, it could be tricky. Among the Pentecostals, grace was not complete until the words “our Father” had been intoned 37 times. The record is 73.

We blessed everything but the cats. Everyone knows they play for the other side.