the peripatetic turkey

It is the time of the year when many people, in this country at least, cook a big turkey for their family, and some years ago, when my grandson was a baby, we volunteered to go to her little house in Norwich and provide the festive feast.

Planning ahead, I took a big roasting tin with me, and once we’d arrived in Norwich, we set off en masse to Waitrose to, basically, buy Christmas. This hugely expensive shop included a Norfolk Bronze turkey, but I’d got the tin, oh yes, and I took it with me to the supermarket, to check that the chosen bird would fit in. We drove home, unloaded the shopping which had nearly bankrupted, and relaxed for a day or two.

Then, on the morning, of the 25th, I put the oven on, placed the turkey lovingly  in its tin, adorned it with streaky bacon, stuffed with stuffing, gave it a foil hat, and opened the oven door.  Disaster. Calamity. The tin was the right size for the turkey, but it was TOO BIG FOR THE OVEN. No way would this wretched fowl fit in the space required. We swore. We had another drink.

Then my first husband, who was there (along with my second, but that’s a whole other story) said that he had the key to a friend’s house “round the corner”, so he could feed their cat while they were away for the holiday, and why didn’t we cook it there?  Sounds so simple, doesn’t it?

There was nobody in the house legally able to drive, so the two husbands and myself ferried the turkey about 500 yards “around the corner”, and there it was cooked. Several visits ensued for basting and checking, and when it was done, we bore it home for consumption – not an easy task, as of course the turkey was hot, the tin was hot, and there was lots of turkey fat involved.

Nobody was harmed in the cooking of said turkey, and the rest of the meal was provided in the kitchen of the correct house, but I tell you – I’d really rather not have to do that again 🙂