Call Me L'il Broiler

Monet  Les Dindes, 1875

Every year we name our Thanksgiving turkey. It started when my son was five and we had checked out Robert McCloskey’s,  Homer Price, from the library and he could not get enough of Homer’s only-in-Centerburg stories. We even had the books on tape and he liked to pop them in his Fisher Price tape recorder and listen to Freddy, Homer, and Uncle Ulysees spin their tales while he built towers with his Legos. I had to buy D batteries in bulk to put new ones in every few days. That year, with twenty five guests coming for Thanksgiving, I bought a twenty five pound turkey and when my son saw it slip out of its plastic bag into the sink, he named it Homer.

I did what I always do three days before—we washed and dried Homer, rubbed him with olive oil and the zest of five or six oranges and lemons tossed with plenty of thyme, kosher salt and fresh black pepper, wrapped him up, and put him to bed until Thanksgiving morning. Over the next few days I caught my son peeking in on him in the garage fridge and I’d say: “So, how’s Homer doing?” and he’d reply: “He’s still here!” I didn’t worry that he would harbor any feelings for Homer—he loves to eat too much. Actually, naming our turkey had elevated his status, becoming an icon, revered for his sacrifice.

And he truly was delicious.  My husband carved, popped juicy morsels in his mouth, and declared Homer the best turkey ever.  Until next year, when my son became a football fan, and he chose the name of the 49ers quarterback,  Alex Smith.  It was a miserable season for the Niners, but Alex was tasty.  So were Simon (when he went through and American Idol phase), Henrietta, and L'il Broiler (both characters from the Walter Brooks "Freddy" series).

This year, an obvious choice pops into my mind: Mr. Cardinale, my son’s fifth grade teacher. Since the school year began his jokes and antics have invaded our dinner table, his toilet humor has interrupted our meals, prompting us to beg our son to leave it at the doorstep. Granted, it’s a welcome respite after years of school as something to be endured. Better to see my son happily leave for school every morning and return eager to share the day’s ha-ha moments, than the long Monday morning I’d-rather-work-on-a-slave-ship face. We’re thankful for Mr. Cardinale and what better way to show our gratitude than to make him the centerpiece of our Thanksgiving table?