Thanksgiving on Oasis Avenue

Thanksgiving is about family - no one can deny that.

And when family is as intense and plentiful as I enjoy it, Thanksgiving comes with a ton of memories. Some are unique to our family, to be sure - most probably involve gravy, football games and John throwing some kind of food while protesting his innocence.

But a lot of these memories are generally shared by many other families - things like cranberry sauce cleverly molded into the shape of a can; a card table for little kids; all the excitement about the big 'ol meal and the knowledge that Christmas was a mere five weeks away.

Some of my early memories involve the little kids table. Even when I was older, as a teenager, I was sometimes condemned to the folding card table with children ten to 12 years my junior for my meal of thanks. And the indignity was compounded by molded thin plastic plates - or worse yet, paper - and plastic silverware that would never cleanly cut the meat, but managed to mar the plate to the point that the gravy and other wet foods on the plate drained out and into your lap.

Let us not forget that the sawing action required to make those utensils cut amplified the rickety wobble the table made anyway from the inevitable shorter leg. At times, I was tempted to balance the table leg out with a wedge of turkey or a hardened biscuit.

The turkey - of course, Mom made sensational birds. And the joy of Thanksgiving led to the bliss of the leftovers, like turkey sandwiches and all kinds of other delights in school lunch sacks.

I used to think there could be no bigger windfall in Turkey Land than to get the leg. All that meat! And the delightful roasted skin ... you betcha! But as I got older, the leg gave way to the breast, of course.

I am still talking about turkey here, and not a college date.

These days, I love the dark meat of the bird, the thighs and such. I enjoy breast meat if it is not too dry, and making the bird with juicy white meat is a legend right up there with Bigfoot.

A few years ago I discovered the delight of deep fried turkey. I have fried up a few birds in my day, and they were lip-smacking good - the skin, at least. Imagine a few dozen sets of fingers pulling at the gobbler before it is even sliced ... that is the fascination with the fried bird.

Of course, you lave to lower the bird into the hot - and I mean smoking hot - oil very slowly. Imagine what is going through my head as I stand arm's length away from the hot cauldron, lowering an 18-pounder into the pot as the gas-fed fire burns inches from my legs.

What am I thinking? I am thinking this: "If that oil spills out into that flame ... I will be the first to die. "

Mary Jo will not let me fry a bird. There is a danger involved, as fire department reports from across the south have chronicled. The key to safety? Drying the bird out so there is no moisture on it pre-dunk. Hot grease and water are volatile. And frying a frozen bird is just stupid - so of course, about 6,000 idiots try it every year.

I will not be joining the crowd at Mom's this year, nor will we be part of the Tennessee celebration at Mary Jo's parents. It's her and me this year, after she gets off work. I have a twelve-pound Tom tucked into the fridge, slowly defrosting. I have several pounds of sweet potatoes and the makings for a pumpkin pie, as well as the ingredients for green bean casserole and cranberries galore.

And I am the chef, since Mary Jo will be working. I had better do a good job for her.

Because when she comes through the door and smiles at me, I know what I am thankful for.