Tucking the wings back under the bird’s body must have resurrected
her, because there was Mom, already chopping onions. We didn’t talk
about my lifestyle, my father, or the burnt-to-a crisp skin of my brilliant
career, nor did we chat about the time she stuffed the turkey with Saltines
because they were on sale at Raley’s, and everyone got so thirsty we all
got drunk, even the children. We didn’t reminisce about past Thanksgivings,
like the time I arrived late and my brother slammed the table and roared,
“We are not going to save her any goddamn salad.” Mom made a point
of reminding me that she set out a half grapefruit for my appetizer,
because I’m allergic to shrimp. We didn’t mention her bad heart—or mine.
We just chopped, boiled, simmered, stewed, sliced, roasted, and sautéed
in butter, and then twisted the turkey wing and tucked it under the body
of the bird, even though it meant breaking the bones a little bit to do it.
