The Flemish Turkey. Enjoy!

At this time of family, love and hope, we thought you might enjoy a short story about the Flemish Turkey.

I was a young and naive sixteen and I'd been in Flanders living just south of Antwerp with a wonderful host family for about four months when a package unexpectedly showed up at the kitchen door. It was a large frozen turkey from the States sent by the student exchange program. I was one third of the way through my year abroad and I'd forgotten that the holiday was a week away. That evening we gathered in the living room as I tried to explain to my family about the tradition, the history, and the feast. It was a difficult task because I didn't really know my history very well and I'd never cooked a turkey. It was made the more difficult bymy very rudimentary conversational Flemish.

Of course these days I am the turkey king -or, as Sharon likes to say "the King of Turkeys!" I start brine-ing the bird on Tuesday night and make up the stuffing on Wednesday evening, stuffing myself in the process as I taste after every addition, trying to get the flavors just right. Sharon watches warily and snacks on cheese, crackers and spinach leaves while I make a mess of the kitchen, adding exotic ground herbs, dried fruits and nuts and savory bits of sausage and bacon. She rolls her eyes when I cook up the oysters -and she's right. "Oysters in Turkey? Fish in Fowl?!" However, the ridiculous thought doesn't slow me down in the least and I gleefully work into the late night on the extravagance of the following day's meal. The next morning always starts early as the stuffing goes into the bird -everywhere in the bird that it will fit with extra on the floor and in the dogs and in me and sometimes stuck to the walls. Before popping it in the oven the juice is poured over everything to create the perfect basting environment under the foil cover. Then that bird cooks and cooks and the smells...oh the smells. By the time our family and friends show up early in the afternoon we all tend to hang out in the kitchen soaking up the wonderful aromas emanating from the oven. We sip on wine and champagne and wait on the bird which actually comes out perfect most every time. Clearly, aside from trying to divine my lovely wife's thoughts and needs, cooking the turkey is one of my few true obsessions.

Twenty five years ago in Flanders as a pimply faced kid I didn't know any of this. I only knew that we had a bird to cook and my wonderful host mother Margaret didn't really speak any English.

After describing with many hand gestures the stuffing procedure (picture exaggerated stuffing motions) of the bird and the boiling of the corn on the cob (they didn't eat corn on cobs which were used exclusively as pig feed back then), and the potatoes and the salads and the jellied cranberries in the can (something none of us understood in the least), my host mother dutifully went to work on the feast's preparation. She bicycled the bird over to the butcher to be prepared and stuffed. We had both worked out that the butcher was the only person qualified to prepare such a grand feast and neither one of us dared take the risk of screwing up this job!

My host family had six children then ranging in age from about nine to twenty years old. Their eighteen year old son had gone to Michigan as an exchange student and I had been accepted as his surrogate for twelve months. I stayed in his room in the attic and was accepted as another son. It was such an extraordinary year! I was a pretty quiet and introverted kid back then, surrounded by this very large family of kids and all of their friends. I went to their school and took dance lessons with them; we were in the scouts together and I would join them at the local youth club on Thursdays and Saturdays to flirt with to the local girls and drink a beer or two. At the end of that year I came home full of life and passion and engagement in my world and determined to live fully with friends and love in all and for all that I did. I have been grateful to that family ever since for what they gave me in those short twelve months. But before any of that there was still the little matter of that turkey.

That Thanksgiving evening the table was decorated and the fine wines were decanted. Yes, there was cob corn on the table served with some trepidation along with the mashed potatoes which I had made and the carrots (which moeder had made and which I called "sad roots" in Flemish - "triestig wortels".) The family gathered and the turkey was brought out on dish under cover. The candles were lit and a toast was made with great mirth. Then, as the cover was removed from the great turkey or "den groot kalkoen", all watched for my reaction. I did very poorly. Looking at the center of the table with mouth agape, I was obviously devastated. There before me was a very large meatloaf-looking object without discernable bird shape or fowl form. I couldn't comprehend what I was looking at and what I saw was horrible. A bird had been sent out and this had been returned, stuffed and shapeless. There was no leg, no thigh, no apparent dark or light meat, no savories stuck in the nooks and crannies of anything even resembling a bird, no pope's nose and no wish bone. And yet the skin of the bird was still whole and intact! It was like reading a very bad tabloid: the juicy particulars had been removed with every last potential bone of contention. The eviscerated turkey flesh was now just a wrapping around the stuffing placed grandly inside.

To this day I don't know how that butcher made those bones disappear. And I have no idea how many hundreds of dollars he must have charged to create the strange magic of that formless boneless turkey presented on that far away table.

I was appalled and it showed. Fortunately, my host family shared a deep and wicked sense of humor and they quickly determined why I was so crestfallen. My very witty host father quickly compared me to that bird and nicknamed me the Flemish Turkey for my apparent lack of recognition for all the effort that had been undertaken to make this a special moment for the American.

The reaction was immediate. Everyone including me laughed so hard that soon we were crying and snorting and having a hard time catching our breath. The awkward moment past, the turkey was served with great fanfare and greatly enjoyed by all. Wine and wonderful beer flowed freely and we learned again about our differences and our similarities. It was a truly wonderful Thanksgiving.

In the years since we have often been reminded of --and laughed about-- that Flemish Turkey. On occasion this story has reminded me of the value of well-timed humility. Sharon and I have been to my host parents' home several times and they were here as family for our marriage. Several of their kids have visited us. I even spoke with both my host parents earlier today and I again remembered and laughed about the "groot kalkoen". The world where an American turkey makes for such fun is a wonderful place indeed.

Sharon and I are so grateful for the kind love of these generous people. Had it not been for them I am certain that I would never have been the person that attracted the beautiful and loving Sharon into my world.

Wherever you are this holiday, whoever you are with, we hope that you are having a wonderful day full of loved ones and their joy. If you happen to make it by the winery this weekend we'll share some of our joy with you. If not, we hope to see you here soon.

Thank you for becoming a part of BOW and Happy Thanksgiving!