Thanksgiving is 'Almost' Over

By Faye Kennedy

At the two-week mark, I have just entered the fourth and final stage of our Thanksgiving meal.

We all know that prancing around with the big, beautiful, brown bird just before it meets the knife is phase one and met with smiles and thunderous applause by guests thankful first and foremost that they were not hosting.

My brother-in-law was pressed into service to carve the heart of the meal and he did not disappoint. Like a samurai, he was quick and accurate—white meat on one side, dark meat on the other, wings attractively placed on the serving platter. 

After the meal he sunk his hands into stripping the bird clean. Bags of turkey were filled one after the next and the carcass was tossed in the freezer.  

Though all stomachs in attendance were preternaturally full from the appetizers and drinks that filled the time void as we scrambled to prepare hot fare with our single oven, the attendees made a heroic attempt to consume some of the traditional meal as I made a mental note to get a smaller turkey in the future. 

Even with our previous week-long, eat-a-thon to empty the refrigerator of its edible contents to make room for leftovers, it took great packing skill, well-chosen tupperware and multiple Zip-loc bags to squeeze the next month's supply of food all back in there.  

The next couple of days were stage two—turkey sandwiches.

There were plenty of thick, long slices to use. My husband prefers his sandwiches nearly naked, with just a layer of mayo to moisten things. I know there are lots of people who will relive the whole dinner in a sandwich by layering the stuffing, potatoes and cranberries onto a hoagie roll, but we are not going to try anything "funny" in this house.  

As the pristine turkey pieces were gobbled up, and the sides of stuffing, potatoes, and cranberries were melded into subsequent meals, we entered stage three, the famous garbage disposal of all potato-chip size turkey pieces—turkey tettrazini.

There must be dozens of riffs on this popular casserole. I took the word of Epicurious for mine.  

And even though the last thing I felt like eating was turkey, last night I dutifully prepped for stage four—turkey soup.

I pulled the bones from the freezer and put them in a large stock pot. After two hours of simmering they fell apart and I strained the bones, added the carrots, celery, onions, bay leaf and teeny tiny turkey shavings that fell off the bones.

Now that I have yet another head-cold, the turkey soup is my go-to choice for the steam, the throat-soothing broth and the mostly imaginery medicinal effects I am projecting onto it in an effort to consume all the turkey. We are waisters, not wasters in this family. 

When I'm finished with this gallon of stage four, I am treating myself to a well-deserved steak.