When you head out for lunch today (I assume that Lean Pocket you placed in the office freezer two months ago is meant to create the illusion of dieting – here’s a hint, you’re no Doug Henning), take a look at the potpourri of value-based dining establishments available to sate your semi-refined palate. Amid the bounty of burger, chicken and pizza joints, what do you see? Or, more precisely, what don’t you see?
A turkey restaurant.
That’s right, my I-was-a-vegetarian-for-six-hours-in-college friend, when you want to, as the youths say, “get your meat on” outside your own kitchen, you can have your beef and chicken six ways to Kevin Bacon (mmmm, bacon). But if you crave franchised culinary stylings focused on the other other white meat, well, you’re a day late and a dollar menu item short. Because while you may select from your Burger Kings and Dairy Queens, ask a bystander where to find the nearest Turkey Tom’s Drumsticks ‘n’ Fried Waddles and you’ll be the one crowned a joker.
I recently, in my mind, asked over 1,322 people and one almost-a-people (my son-in-gestation) what their favorite meat was. Forty-three percent said “beef,” 32% claimed “chicken,” 28% were sick for the swine, 5% craved “krab with a k” and 2% hosed me down with patchouli oil and ran off in search of soy burgers. Yes, I realize that totals 110%, but if athletes can give that much effort week in and week out, I think my imaginary consumers can get down that new math swing, too.
With the mountain of scientific research mounting into something more than a molehill yet not quite the mountain I claimed in the beginning of this sentence, one must ponder a question that has haunted philosophers since 1983: Why is the turkey the Official Poultry of Thanksgiving?
Indeed, if no one really enjoys turkey beyond using it as the third- or fourth-string meat in a club sandwich, why has it become the de facto main course in our nation’s annual paean to our blessings – apparently chief among which is the Detroit Lions Pop Warner team? One theory traces turkey’s popularity to Founding Father Benjamin Franklin. Aside from being an inventor, statesman, philanderer, author, annoying party guest (“A pig-in-the-blanket saved is a pig-in-the-blanket earned.”) and stove enthusiast, Uncle Ben was also an outspoken supporter of the turkey. In fact, Franklin went so far as to argue that the turkey should be America’s national bird instead of the bald eagle, claiming the turkey to be “a much more respectable Bird, and withal a true original Native of America…He is besides, though a little vain & silly, a Bird of Courage, and would not hesitate to attack a Grenadier of the British Guards who should presume to invade his Farm Yard with a red Coat on.1” Though possibly the boldest, most stirring words ever written on behalf of the gobbler, Franklin’s fellow Founders rejected his plea, with John Adams noting that it would be “in poor taste (no Pun intended, ye) to see Our Nation’s aviary Symbol not only flightless, but also Skewered hence overt an open Flame! Nor do I resemble in the Leastte one Paul Giamatti!” Hear, hear.
I, shockingly enough, have my own thesis about turkey’s purpose in our Thanksgiving Day ritual. Consider the fact that no one ever makes a whole turkey at home except on Thanksgiving. Seriously. Beyond school lunches, assorted casseroles baked up for Methodist potlucks and the occasional Swanson TV dinner intended to cleanse one’s taste buds of Salisbury steak, turkey is relegated to lunchmeat within the domestic setting. Given this, how many people actually pull off a well-made bird when the big day arrives? And how could we expect them to? You do something once a year with the whole family – especially Aunt Cathy who really isn’t even your aunt – judging your performance and see how well you do. Sure, it’s possible to whip up a 16-pounder that’s tender, juicy and bursting at the seams with tryptophan, but it seems more a gift of Providence than of Julia Child when it occurs. There’s a reason gravy exists, and it’s called dry turkey. Turkey that’s leftover for days or weeks after Aunt Cathy has finally scooted her Rascal back to Sheboygan.
And that’s the point. Turkey, I posit, is a meat of penance. It’s an arid, jerky-tough slab of meat meant to remind us of all for which we have to be grateful on many levels. First, we should be grateful for the sides – the stuffing, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes and Cool Ranch Doritos that make up for whatever the turkey lacks. The foul fowl (thanks, John Adams!) also reminds us that, for the rest of the year, we get to enjoy God’s cornucopia in full. Including Chicken Minis from Chick-Fil-A. Just not on Sundays. And if digesting the possum-like flesh of an ugly, angry, ignoble bird is the price I have to pay for biscuit-based chicken goodness, then pass me a drumstick, Grandma, I’m ready to pay the piper.
1Letter from Benjamin Franklin to his daughter Sally dated January 26, 1784.
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