Talk Turkey (3 page)

“Oh? What do you do when you’re not saving hapless cooks from starting kitchen fires?”

Carson tensed, waiting for Tom to tell him it was none of his business or end the call, but just like last time, Tom took Carson’s overfamiliarity in stride. “I’m a chef. Prep, for now, but I have my degree and I’m hoping to move up the ladder. Get my own kitchen some day.”

“That’s great,” Carson said, kicking himself. He’d thought about Tom more than he should have over the last two weeks, but he’d never once thought of him doing anything other than answering turkey questions. Of course he’d have a real job. He also had a real life to go with it, one that didn’t involve Carson’s pathetic fantasies about running into him on the street and striking up a conversation that had nothing to do with turkeys.

“Are you looking at pans right now?” Tom asked, bringing Carson’s attention back to the task at hand.

“Yeah. There’s one with a metal thing inside. It’s kind of vee-shaped. Is that the rack thing you were talking about?”

“It is. Why don’t you e-mail me a pic of the pan? I want to make sure you’re getting something solid. How do the handles feel?”

Carson poked at the shiny metal handle. “Uh, handle-like?”

“Yeah, I’m going to need you to send me a picture.”

He waited for Carson to take the picture and then gave him an e-mail address that didn’t seem attached to the Talk Turkey hotline at all. ChefTommyS didn’t really sound like the kind of professional moniker an office would give someone, nor did Carson think the hotline probably used Gmail.

He swallowed hard and e-mailed the picture of the pan to Tom. Did this mean Tom wanted him to have his e-mail address? Was it because he wanted Carson to e-mail him for real or because the hotline didn’t give its employees e-mail addresses?

“Oh, yeah. That’s exactly what I meant,” Tom said. “The handles look sturdy enough that you won’t be dropping it. It might be light now, but put a seventeen-pound turkey and a bunch of vegetables in there and it’ll be pretty unwieldy.”

Carson frowned at it, unsure of whether or not it would fit in his oven. He shrugged and tossed it in his cart. He could always bring it back.

“So what else are you making? Stuffing? Mashed potatoes? Cranberry sauce? Do you go in for the can stuff or do you like the relish with the pieces in it?”

Carson blinked, overwhelmed. He honestly hadn’t thought about anything other than the turkey. The Pinterest board his mother had made had other things on it, but the only thing she’d reliably hounded him about was the turkey. Shit. Did that mean he had to make other things?

“You’re freaking out, aren’t you?” Tom sounded amused.

“Little bit.”

“Okay. Listen, it’s a travesty to just have the turkey with nothing else, but I get it. You’re not a cook and you don’t want leftovers for days. Is there a deli in the store you’re at? They probably have some nice premade cranberry relish. And you can get some decent heat-and-eat mashed potatoes. I won’t tell anyone. And no matter what anyone’s grandma tells you, including yours, stuffing out of a bag is just fine.”

His grandmother always made oyster dressing, one of the few things Carson never touched at Christmas dinner. He didn’t doubt that whatever came in a bag would be loads better.

“And pie. You have to get a pie. Personally, I think mince is overdone at Christmas. I like a good solid apple pie, but those are always better homemade. If you’re going to buy one, go with pecan. And get one from the freezer, not one of the fresh ones. That way you can bake it yourself at home. It’ll taste better, I promise.”

Carson was going to weigh three hundred pounds by New Year’s. He pulled the cart to a stop in the deli, dutifully loading in all of the things Tom had described. The cranberry relish actually looked pretty good. So did the apple pies, but mindful of Tom’s warning, he picked up a pecan instead. Carson loved apple, but there was no way he was going to make one himself. So pecan it was. A lot of people must agree with Tom’s view of frozen over fresh, since there was a big upright freezer right next to the table of pies with the same assortment of flavors in it. The pie had instructions right on the box. He didn’t even have to defrost it before sticking it in the oven. Excellent.

He tossed the frozen pie in his cart with a thud. “Where would the stuffing be?”

Tom made a thoughtful noise. “Canned goods, usually. Somewhere in that aisle, at least. Are you going traditional or cornbread?”

It was like he was speaking a different language. “I have no idea.”

“Traditional, then. Make sure to pick up some chicken stock. The stuffing will taste better if you make it with that instead of water, and you can use some in the bottom of the turkey pan to keep the vegetables and drippings from scorching.”

The turkey was going to be
dripping
? No wonder Tom had been upset when Carson had said he’d planned to cook it without a pan.

“You have a whisk, right?”

“Is that the wire thing with the end that looks like an egg?”

“That’s one type of whisk, yes.” The despair was back in Tom’s voice.

“Yes, then. I do.”

“Small miracle. Well, you’ll use the whisk to pull together the turkey drippings into a gravy. Assuming you like gravy? I mean, who doesn’t? And otherwise it’s a terrible waste of all that wonderful flavor at the bottom of the pan.”

Carson had always found gravy to be lumpy and gross. “Sure, sure.”

Tom made an irritated noise. “You’re kidding me. You don’t like gravy? I know where you’re from, Carson. You can’t claim to be, like, from Canada or something. Gravy is an American tradition.”

“Actually, I think they eat more gravy in Canada than we do here.” It was true. Poutine. Totally a thing. Gravy and cheese curds and french fries. Not that he’d tried it. Because… gravy….

That earned him another gusty sigh. “Work with me, Carson. Promise me you’ll make the gravy.”

“I’ll make the gravy,” Carson promised dutifully.

“And you have your pan and your turkey, plus enough sides to make a decent meal. I guess my work here is done.”

Carson blinked and swallowed hard. “Yeah. You’ve been a big help,” he managed, his throat tight. How did Tom end up making him forget this was business, not friendship? Every time he’d talked to him, Carson had been bereft when the call had ended. It was beyond pathetic.

“Don’t forget to use the helpful booklet about what to do with turkey leftovers after the big day,” Tom said, sounding a bit wooden, like he was back to reading from a script. “They’ll help make your holiday turkey-riffic.”

A bit of the emptiness that had invaded his stomach receded at the bad joke, and Carson huffed out a laugh. “That was terrible.”

“That was required for all calls this week,” Tom said, his voice back to its usual booming mirth. “Be glad you didn’t call the week before Thanksgiving. We had to sign off all calls with ‘Have a gobble-gobble good Thanksgiving!’”

“No!”

“Would I lie to you, Carson? And violate the inherent trust between a man and his turkey advisor?”

“You need a new script writer.”

“I need to get off this call because they start asking questions about any that go over twenty minutes. But good luck, Carson. Really. I hope you have a happy Christmas. Call back if you run into any trouble. And use the pan, okay?”

Carson’s stomach thawed even more. “I will. Merry Christmas, Tom.”

I
T
SAID
a lot about Carson’s current state of mind that he’d named the turkey currently taking up a good three-quarters of the real estate in his refrigerator. Sure, he’d be eating it. But that didn’t mean he shouldn’t name it. Especially since it was doing such a great service for him, being his sole companion for Christmas dinner. At the rate it was defrosting—which was interminably slowly—it would be coming as a guest and not the meal, which was all the more reason to name it.

He’d read that most smaller commercial turkeys were hens, but his own came in on the border. It could either be a large hen or a small tom, which necessitated a unisex name.

“C’mon, Terry,” he coaxed as he poked at the still-unyielding flesh. He’d set it up exactly how Tom had told him. There was a bit of liquid in the bottom of the pan, which had to mean it was defrosting a little, but it was nowhere near as soft as it should be.

He tried not to feel too gleeful. After all, if Terry didn’t defrost soon, he’d be eating mashed potatoes and stuffing for Christmas and there would be nothing to put his cranberry relish on. Still, it was hard to be too upset about Terry’s stubbornness since it gave him the chance to call Tom again.

Today had been his last day in the office until after New Year’s, and Carson didn’t have any Skype calls planned with his family until Christmas Eve. After that, most of them were going skiing, like they always did. So, was it that strange that he was excited to talk to Tom, given the fact that he was potentially facing almost two weeks without talking to anyone?

Carson washed his hands before calling, mindful of the dire warnings in
How to Thaw
about salmonella, listeria, E. coli, and a host of other bacteria with too many vowels to pronounce.

“Carson, if there are flames present, your first call needs to be to the fire department,” Tom said as soon as he picked up.

Carson’s grin stretched his cheeks almost painfully. “That brings up an interesting point. Can a turkey that’s still frozen actually catch on fire?”

“Yes, and what do you mean it’s still frozen? Didn’t you put it in the refrigerator four days ago?”

Was Tom actually keeping notes on their conversations? Or maybe he just found them as memorable as Carson did. Carson bit his lip, trying not to let his imagination run away with him.

“I did everything you said to do, but it’s still mostly frozen. If it’s still like that on Christmas, can I, like, turn up the baking temperature and make up for it that way?”

There was a dull thud, and Tom’s voice was muffled. “Do not do that.”

“Did you just hit your head on your desk?”

“If I had a desk, I’d be banging my head on it repeatedly, Carson. You’re enough to drive a man to drink. You can’t put a frozen turkey in the oven and just turn up the heat. It has to be thawed slowly or it’s never going to be cooked inside before it burns outside.”

“It was just a thought,” Carson said, still grinning.

“It was just a thought you should never, ever think again.”

“You can’t police my thoughts,” Carson teased. “I’m thinking about it right now. And you know what? I’m not even using a pan. I’m thinking about just shoving Terry in by itself and cranking up the heat as high as it will go.”

“Did you—” Tom faltered, laughing. “Wait, wait. Did you name your turkey? Seriously?”

“Well, we’ve been spending a lot of time together, what with Terry’s refusal to defrost,” Carson said defensively. “It just seemed polite to have a name to go with the string of curse words I was uttering every time I opened the refrigerator door.”

“Okay, for starters, stop doing that. Both calling the turkey by a given name and opening the refrigerator. The first is creepy, and the second is going to result in the temperature rising in your refrigerator.”

Carson furrowed his brow and stared at his refrigerator. “Isn’t that a good thing? Then Terry will defrost quicker.”

“No, then
Terry
and everything else in your refrigerator will give you food poisoning because it’s all been improperly stored. Does anything else in there have a name, by the way? Your eggs or your milk? The half-full bottle of five-year-old ketchup everyone has in their door?”

There wasn’t much in the refrigerator except for Terry and the rest of Carson’s Christmas dinner. A few half-full take-out containers and an empty pizza box he hadn’t gotten around to tossing yet.

“That would be silly, of course not,” he said haughtily, dissolving into laughter when Tom started to snicker.

“I can’t believe I’m indulging this, but… why Terry?”

“Because I don’t know if it’s a boy or a girl. Terry’s a unisex name.”

“Well, that makes perfect sense, then. God forbid you misgender the turkey you’re going to eat in three days,” Tom said wryly. Carson wondered if he was the kind of guy who was prone to eye rolling. It definitely sounded like an eye-rolling kind of tone.

“That I
might
be eating in three days. If Terry thaws out. Which is in doubt.”

“Hence the reason for your call to the illustrious Talk Turkey hotline. Right.” Tom sighed. “So if it’s not thawed by tomorrow, you can try the cold-water method. Are you working tomorrow? You have to change the water every thirty minutes, so I don’t recommend it if you’re not going to be home.”

“No, I’m home till after New Year’s.”

“Lucky you,” Tom said. “I’m jealous. I’ve been pulling double shifts to cover everyone who’s going on vacation.” Tom did sound tired, now that Carson was listening for it.

“At the hotline?”

Tom chuckled. “No, at the restaurant. It’s been a good opportunity for me, since they’re letting me move around the kitchen and cover different stations. But I’m exhausted. Christmas Eve can’t come fast enough.”

“Restaurant’s closed for Christmas, then?”

“Yeah, most do. But even if it wasn’t, I wouldn’t be there. I took some vacation time to fly back home for Christmas.”

Oh. Carson frowned. Of course Tom would be spending Christmas with his family. Why wouldn’t he? Not everyone planned their major life changes as poorly as Carson did. Next year he’d be flying back to northern California about now too.

“Carson? Did I lose you?”

“No, just thinking. So you’re heading to the West Coast for the holidays? That’s great. Are you somewhere snowy? I’d love to get away from the slush here in Chicago.”

Tom hesitated a second, then answered. “Yeah, I’m tired of the snow too. And the forecast is calling for a helluva storm on Christmas Eve, so I’m hoping I get out before that. I’ll be screwed if they start shutting airports down.”

Carson’s heart fluttered. Chicago was forecasted to get buried on Christmas Eve. The news had talked about little else for days. But the system that was responsible was huge—it would hit Minnesota and a huge swath of the Midwest, along with Illinois. It didn’t mean anything.