My grandfather raised cain and two lovely daughters in his red brick house on North Bend Road.
A Renaissance man with a sweet tenor voice, he sang on a Cincinnati radio station and tooled around town in his own cool car from the age of 16.
He worked hard as a butcher in his parent’s grocery store and, with my Grandma, lived specifically. They ate haddock and American spaghetti on Fridays, drank Kesslers and club soda in a tall glass with ice during cocktail hour and socialized on Saturday nights.
I found them both sweet and glamorous and, as such, somewhat unlikely players in the great turkey incident of 1976.
As I recall, the bulk of us lounged in our family room watching football and waiting to be called for dinner when a loud shriek and then a thud sent us running to the kitchen. We arrived just in time to see our Thanksgiving turkey, buttered up and semi-cooked, skidding down the length of the kitchen floor. My mother stood on one side of the open oven door wearing her my-parents-are-visiting apron, my grandma stood on the other side of the door, her oven mitted hands held to her face.
Apparently, Grandpa the butcher had suggested they flip the turkey halfway through cooking to ensure the bird cooked evenly. Heavy, hot and slippery, the turkey sprung loose.
Having been shooed from the room along with the rest of the family, I can’t say for sure how they managed to scoop that turkey back up, rinse it off and shove it back in the oven. I can tell you, though, that it was delicious.
And my grandfather, who had started all the trouble, dined as if nothing had happened.
“Well, my goodness, Peggy,” he said to my mother. “I think this is your moistest turkey yet.”
Happy Thanksgiving from Molly and Me.
|Molly and her Great Grandpa Fey, Thanksgiving 1999|