TODAY

Drama Queen candidates
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Table Talk

Did you agonize over the decision to circumcise your baby boy? Do you regret the decision your parents made for you? Join the foreskin debate in Table Talk.

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ARCHIVES

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Mamafesto
By Camille Peri
Why it's time
for Mothers Who Think

[ CONTESTANT #3 ]

CAN WE USE A BOTTLE OF HAIR SPRAY TO BASTE THE TURKEY?
By Bethany Lee
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"But Mom, why can't we use the food stamps to buy what we like? You always spend them on bonbons and never share with us!" wailed one of the 17-year-olds who lived at the group home where I worked. She said this pleadingly as we dragged through the crowded grocery store, looking for Thanksgiving dinner trimmings. The girls at the home had recently stumbled upon a potent tool for manipulating me: public humiliation. But it wasn't going to work today.

I was a 22-year-old counselor for six teenage girls, and for the four-day holiday weekend, I was the only staff person working with them. Full of altruism, I wanted to give these girls warm memories of a spectacular Thanksgiving feast surrounded by the love of this makeshift family: a juicy, golden turkey filled with homemade stuffing, sides of fresh cranberry sauce -- and mashed potatoes that didn't come out of a box. Of course, I knew little more than my girls did about how to actually make this happen, since this was also my first holiday on my own.

Much like the first Thanksgiving, we, too, were pioneers, blazing a personal culinary trail, and after a little pep talk, my bright young charges caught the pilgrim spirit. Watching them enthusiastically rip out the turkey innards only to double dare each other to taste them filled me with pride.

On the morning of the big day, we gathered around the oven ceremoniously in our pajamas as we interred the massacred turkey, whom the girls had affectionately given the gender-neutral name of Charlie. When we opened the oven door, it seemed to me that the oven was not very warm, despite pre-heating.

My doubts were brushed aside as the girls clamored for their next adventure: basting. Before the oven door was even closed, an argument began over who would have the first opportunity to baste. At this point, I realized that I had never seen a baster in our less than fully equipped kitchen. I started riffling through drawers and cabinets, hoping that the delay would in no way quench their excitement to perform this task I had dreaded. The new game became "whoever found a baster would be the first to baste." After I turned down offers to use an empty hair-spray bottle, we came across a large syringe, which was deemed very apropos for our Martha Stewart-esque celebration.

When we went to baste the turkey, my fears were realized. Our temperamental oven was taking the day off. Since we had the budget of a group home, calling a repairman on a holiday was out of the question. Our only hope of salvaging our meal was to use another oven. Close to an hour behind on our cooking schedule, I did what any desperate mother would do: I packed up the girls (some still not fully dressed) and Charlie with his designer baster, and headed for another group home run by our agency. Even as I sped along on the highway, the girls continued to pass the 18-pound bird around and baste away, spraying turkey grease as we went.

The staffers at the other home were clearly not as foolish as I: They had taken their girls out in an attempt to avoid the drama of home cooking. With no one home and no key to get in, I found something to be thankful for: My girls were experienced at breaking and entering.

In no time at all, Charlie was turning a beautiful golden brown and my girls were messing up someone else's kitchen. It turned out to be a day full of thanksgiving.
SALON | Dec. 10, 1997

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