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Published on 11/24/1999 All articles from this issue

The vegetarian on Thanksgiving

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By Joan Passarelli

Blue Jeans & Jelly Beans

I stopped eating meat several years ago. I did it for various reasons, none of them religious or ethical, so I've never claimed the label "vegetarian." But it's a succinct way to describe how I usually eat. And cook.

Most of the time this presents no problem. My husband takes over quite capably and creatively when a carnivorous craving comes on. And my 10-year-old son fries his own bacon in the mornings with my blessing.

But at Thanksgiving, there's just no avoiding the turkey. It's the ritual centerpiece of dinner, not to mention the source of the gravy and stuffing that most of my gang prefer to the meat itself. It's got to be roasted, and I, over-proud cook that I am, take it upon myself.

Last year, on Thanksgiving morning, I unwrapped the turkey and hesitantly poked the flesh. Cold and clammy. I took a deep breath and put on my apron with grim determination. I washed the bird and felt gingerly inside the cavity for the giblets.

Now, "cavity" and "giblets" are nice kitchen words, but what they mean is, I reached up that bird's rear end and pulled out its guts.

They were soft and slippery. Hyperventilating, I dropped them as quickly as possible into a pan of water and washed my hands. I put the water on for stock and calmed down. I know some people like giblet gravy, but I wasn't touching them again. It would have to be plain gravy this year.

Then came the stuffing. I brandished my spoon helplessly for a moment, then scooped some up. I lifted the turkey's legs, trying not to think how much it felt like lifting a baby's legs for a fresh diaper. Then I plunged my spoon between them into the darkness. I gulped. But I finished the job and put it in the oven.

After an hour, it was time to baste. I opened the oven door, and the smell engulfed me with memories.

I was six years old, in my grandparents' kitchen. The whole clan was there for Thanksgiving. All the aunts and uncles were packed into the tiny kitchen, all talking at once and hugging any niece or nephew who wandered through. They opened the oven every 10 minutes to baste and sniff. They argued about how long to cook it, and whether Grandma and Grandpa should put a foil tent over it, but kept laughing all the time. I felt safe, warm and loved.

Watching our turkey roast just the same way, 30 years later, I felt loved all over again. I lost all my queasiness, and at dinner, served up the turkey joyfully.

I didn't eat any, though. After all, I thought, I don't eat meat. Besides (more practically), my plate was already heaped with so much good food I didn't want any.

But the next day at lunchtime, I was still reverberating from the memories. I thought of my grandfather. In the evening after the feast, he used to cut slices of white meat and make a sandwich for each of us. I loved sitting by myself in the kitchen with him while the relatives watched football or played it outside.

With a mental nod to Grandpa, I made myself a big turkey sandwich on sourdough, with mayonnaise, lettuce, and cranberry relish. I ate every bite. It was delicious.

I have forfeited the right ever to call myself a vegetarian. But Thanksgiving's tomorrow. And the day after, I just might have a turkey sandwich.

Passarelli is a wife and mother of three, and is thankful for many things, even turkey.