“Sheriff! Tilly’s loose! Somebody let Tilly out of her cage! That bird’s flew the coop!”
“Oh my lord,” Sheriff Tinker said, and turned to follow her back to the raffle booth.
“Geez, what next?” I asked, shaking my head.
“I don’t know how much more of this I can take,” Aunt Jewel admitted. “Let’s get something to drink, then I’m outta here.”
It took us quite some time to fight our way through the chaos and the crowds. The air was filled with the smell of wood smoke, peanut oil and roasting meat, but I’d lost my appetite.
We passed by one last food booth and stopped to check out their menu. They had boneless turkey wings grilled with your choice of jalapeno sauce, habanero sauce, chipotle sauce or Cajun spices. Aunt Jewel frowned. “This whole chili pepper thing has gotten out of hand! There’s just way too much hot stuff in food these days. Take it DOWN a notch, people!”
I agreed. The whole thing made me feel bilious.
We were finally at the park exit. A huge sign advertised “BBQ Cock-Off.” Somebody had painted through the offending “c” with red paint and corrected it to Cook-Off.
“This town seriously needs a proofreader,” I said.
“Well I never!” Aunt Jewel exclaimed.
We walked by a group of volunteer firefighters guarding the propane fryers. I guess they decided better safe than sorry. One turned our way and smiled. “Hey, good looking. Have we met?”
“Keep walking,” I said to Aunt Jewel under my breath. “It’s the ass clown with the car!”
“What?” she asked.
“The yellow car that races and booms by the house all the time!”
Turning around, she smiled and gave him a little wave. “Oh, that’s our new Fire Chief. Aaron Tucker. Ain’t he a looker? You should go over and introduce yourself.”
“Are you kiddin’ me? He’s the new Fire Chief?”
“He is. I met him at the garden club meeting. Such a nice young man! He grows roses.”
“That’s just great.” I groaned and pulled her along. “I wanna go home! I’ve had enough!”
She nodded. “Let’s go through the Turkey Express at the high school. We can get grilled turkey sandwiches to go. Lolly said they have car hops dressed as pilgrims and Indians. They’re raising money for their theatre department.”
“Sounds good to me.” I had a fantasy of a cold margarita alongside my sandwich.
We were almost at the car when Lolly ran up, yelling. “Have y’all seen the sheriff? I found the cash box. Oh, and there’s a dead guy in my freezer!”
“I thought he was with you!” I got out my phone and called the sheriff. “I think we found your thief. Meet Lolly at the diner,” I said, then disconnected.
Lolly explained. “I went back to the diner to check on the frozen turkeys for the toss. They hadn’t been delivered to the booth yet. The lock on the door was jimmied. That’s when I found the dead guy in the freezer. He was dressed in an orange shirt and black hoodie. With turkey tail feathers!”
“Sounds like the same guy I saw run by in that costume earlier today.”
Lolly nodded. “Best guess is he tried to hide, accidentally knocked my temporary shelving over, and all those frozen turkeys fell on his head. Nobody would survive in there for long. Boom! Dead guy.”
“Hokey smokes, Bullwinkle! So that’s where he went!” Jeremy appeared out of nowhere. “Turkey pop, anyone?”
“Where have YOU been?” I asked.
“Trying to catch that frozen miscreant. We lost him in the crowd. Then I got distracted talking to Dorita about her inflatable turkey. It’s a goner. Deputy Wade shot it to bits.”
I shook my head. “Does anybody else think it’s a good time to go home, before something else happens?”
*
Just a few hours later, things looked much better on the other side of a pitcher of ice-cold salty margaritas. Lolly was draped over one patio chair with her feet up on the table, Sheriff Tinker was lounged in another with his head in Aunt Jewel’s lap. Our new rescue cat, Kalamazoo, was licking the condensation off my glass.
We heard it coming a few blocks away. The ice cream truck crept by, playing Turkey in the Straw. The sheriff cocked an eye as Dewey slowly trolled by. “If I wasn’t so damned tired, I’d shoot the speakers out of that son-of-a-bitch,” he threatened.
Aunt Jewel swatted him. “Lyndell, language!”
Sheriff Tinker looked like he’d been through the wringer. “You know, I’ve been a cop for over twenty years. I’ve seen a lot. Death by frozen turkeys? That’s a new one.”
“I can just see the headlines in the Nameless News now. Death by Fowl Play,” Jeremy predicted.
“Or Thanksgiving Festival Turns into Turkey Trot of Terror,” I added.
Lolly shook her head. “I feel bad about that poor guy.”
“Don’t,” the sheriff said. “He was a wanted criminal in Texas and in Oklahoma for robbery and theft of city funds. You know he worked in the mayor’s office here? They didn’t even bother to do a background check. Buncha boneheads. But you didn’t hear that from me.”
He finished his drink and called one of the deputies to pick him up. He planned on doing nothing more for the next few days than sitting on his rear with Aunt Jewel, watching football.
Jeremy and I cleaned up, and I was ready to send him home and haul my weary butt inside. But then I heard a strange noise. “What IS that?” I asked, stopping to listen.
“I didn’t hear anything,” Jeremy said. “Probably a yackety grackle. I’ll see y’all later!”
“Just a minute!” Aunt Jewel stared out past the garden. “It sounds like it’s coming from the shed. If I’m not mistaken, it sounds like a turkey.”
“I need to get home, I guess,” Jeremy said, quickly sliding away.
I turned around and grabbed him by the back of the shirt. “Oh no you didn’t!” I squealed. “Please tell me you did not do what I suspect you did.”
Aunt Jewel trotted to the shed and threw open the door. A huge, very mad turkey flew out, knocking her over. She sprawled on the grass, flailing her arms and legs. Tilly the Turkey scratched around then climbed up on Jewel’s chest.
“Jeremy!” she yelled. “Get this thing off me!”
Jeremy grabbed a handful of birdseed and coaxed Tilly back into the shed. I grabbed Aunt Jewel under the arms and hauled her up.
I pulled out my phone and dialed. “Hey, Sheriff Tinker. We found Tilly. Somebody stashed her in our shed…. Yes, she’s fine. Just a few ruffled feathers.” I nodded and smiled. “OK, that’s wonderful!” I disconnected. “He’s coming back. He’s not happy.”
I cocked an eyebrow at Jeremy. He squirmed, but said nothing. “I suggest you make yourself invisible for a while. Good news is, they’ve decided to let Tilly go back to her farm. Some anonymous donor paid for her freedom. She won’t get deep-fried this year, at least.”
Aunt Jewel dusted herself off and we all laughed, especially when the sheriff showed up and tried to stuff Tilly in the back seat of his car.
She and I decided to have just one more margarita, having survived the Thanksgiving Turkey Trot of Terror and Great Gobbler Gallop. This one would go down in the history books.
*
On Thanksgiving Day, I woke with no premonitions of doom, just the joyous smell of food in the air. It was a quiet day, Aunt Jewel’s dressing was moist and sublime, and after stuffing ourselves, we all got some rest.
The next morning, I watched as Aunt Jewel and Sheriff Tinker rummaged around in the storage shed and hauled out the Christmas decorations. Sheriff Tinker had convinced her to avoid inflatables. They emerged with a nice, tasteful painted plywood cutout of Santa Claus, circa 1965. He was just about to open a can of red paint for touch-ups when the ground began to shake.
We heard the booming bass several blocks away. The windows vibrated on the house. The bright yellow Dodge Charger Super Bee raced by, music blaring. The driver tooted his horn and threw me a k
iss as he boomed by.
“He’s probably on his way to a fire,” Aunt Jewel surmised.
That’s Nameless for you.
“Clean” Turkey Pot Pie
Lisa Wagner
In a large pot on stove, bring to a boil:
1 pound previously cooked turkey, shredded
1 (12 ounce) bag of frozen peas and carrots
1 cup canned chicken broth
1/8 tsp. each of the following dried herbs/spices: garlic, rosemary, parsley, celery seed, and sage
1/4 tsp. dry onion
Several grinds/shakes of black pepper
Directions:
1. In a small bowl, mix 3 Tbsp. flour with just enough rice milk to create a slurry. Add it to the pot and stir well to thicken the ingredients. Turn off the heat.
2. Coat bottom and sides of a shallow baking dish with light olive oil.
3. Pour the thickened meat and vegetable mixture into the dish.
4. Top with the following pie crust, which can easily be blended in a bowl with a fork:
1/2 cup whole wheat flour
1/2 cup unbleached flour
3/4 cup oat flour (use a coffee grinder to grind quick or rolled oats)
1/2 tsp. salt
1/3 cup light olive oil
1/3 cup cold water
5. Bake at 425F in oven for 30 minutes, until crust is golden.
Serves 4–6
A Season to Worry
Lesley A. Diehl
The Day After the Day After
Drink cups strewn on the table and countertop, half-eaten crackers, chips, dip congealing on the sideboard, the smell of vodka permeating the air, and cobwebs—fake, of course—hung from the ceilings in all the downstairs rooms. It was two days after the Halloween party my aunt and grandmothers had talked me into throwing, the one where I unintentionally shot my Aunt Nozzie’s newest lover and a hit man abducted my grandmothers and me. Oh, everything turned out fine in the end; the hit man is in jail and Aunt Nozzie’s boyfriend has recovered from his bullet wound, if not from being wooed by my aunt.
We’d taken yesterday off to recover from the events, but now my house shouted the need for order, something hard to come by when my relatives were visiting. The end to the party was hardly unusual, not when it concerned my Aunt Nozzie and my grandmothers, three women for whom chaos was an everyday occurrence.
My experience with family has included explosions, murder, gunshots, and chases, but always and only on Thanksgiving, so I assumed it was safe to throw a party on Halloween. I was so wrong. Now I wondered if all fall holidays with my family were destined to be disasters. Should I be worried about Christmas? Would I find my aunt and grandmothers under my Christmas tree entertaining Santa and his elves with a pitcher of my aunt’s famous Scarlet O’Haras? I gave a shudder of horror. Now Thanksgiving was only weeks away, and my house was underinsured.
I looked through my kitchen window to see my neighbor, Mr. Smith, shoveling his sidewalk. The snow had begun early this morning, and I should be out there cleaning my walk and driveway also. He caught sight of me in the window and, mistaking me for one of my family members, he tossed the shovel down and sprinted for the house. Hmm. I guess he hadn’t recovered from both of my grandmothers’ tackling him at the party and pouring vodka punch down his throat through the hinged mouthpiece of his knight-in-rusty-armor costume. He was silly to think metal could protect him from my grandmothers’ amorous advances. Mr. Smith is shy. My grandmothers are randy.
My eye caught sight of the “thing” in my drive—a bit battered from its recent run into a ditch—my aunt’s motorhome, which she had purchased to drive her and my two grandmothers from Illinois to visit me in Upstate New York. They were supposed to leave after a short visit and Halloween, but given the upheaval of the party and the early snowstorm bearing down on us, I could hardly expect them to take on wintery roads. The forecast said the blizzard was barreling toward us from the West. I didn’t relish the thought of my family out there in that behemoth vehicle. Who knows what they might run into or run over?
I located my bucket and mop behind the jars of applesauce, about two hundred of them, stacked on the back storage room’s shelves and piled on the floor, and decided to clean the kitchen. I’d wait until the snow let up before I tackled the shoveling.
As I wiped down the counters I spied pieces of apple core and smears of sauce remaining in the corners. I had allowed my aunt and grandmothers to talk me into using my kitchen to make apple sauce before the party. How could I refuse? They had gathered apples from across Michigan and New York and piled bushels of them into the motorhome on their way to visit me. By the time they arrived, the fruit was beginning to rot, spoil, and even ferment. I called our local landfill to see if they would allow me to dump over-ripe fruit there, but they refused. I could just imagine the landfill sign being removed and replaced with one that read:
Wildlife preserve—do not feed the animals—they’re already full.
Unfortunately, Aunt Nozzie had overheard that call.
“You want to do what? Darcie, I’m ashamed of you. We spent a lot of time gathering all that fruit on our way here,” she said, pulling herself out of the kitchen chair and towering over me. And that woman could tower. She’s over six feet and has flaming red hair. When you’ve been towered over by her, you know it.
My father’s mother, called Grandma Papa, put a hand to her throat in shock. “You can’t mean you want to dispose of that fruit! That’s not part of our family heritage, you know.”
In contrast to her daughter, Aunt Nozzie, my Grandma Papa barely reaches five feet, and shrinking, and what she was referring to wasn’t a family tradition of raising and harvesting fruit, but rather her passion for never throwing anything away, her insistence that everything could be reused in some manner. Witness her clothes, which were hand-me-downs from her daughter, made to fit her tiny frame with pins, thread, scotch tape, duct tape, and paper clips. She insisted her size-six feet resided comfortably in Aunt Nozze’s size eleven shoes held on with grosgrain ribbons tied over the instep.
Grandma Papa preached the virtues of recycling before it became a national rage. She encouraged the community to do the same at town board meetings, which she attended with a shotgun (unloaded, of course) in her hand, making her an early ecoterrorist. I always believed she wouldn’t have resorted to that kind of threat if she’d been an inch taller.
I assumed my other grandmother, my mother’s mother—you guessed the name—Grandma Mama agreed with their stance on cooking up the apples because she said, “Glibben froik bland,” which is her version of Swedish for, “no you don’t.” She has always insisted she speaks Swedish, and the family has encouraged her in this delusion because, well, it’s just easier that way. Otherwise she tends to take to the pantry to find her Muscatel wine and sneaks it into some dish. Then we all get drunk. It’s not worth arguing with her.
It was always dicey, very dicey, when Aunt Nozzie took over the kitchen. Most of my experience with her and my grandmothers in kitchens had been her kitchen and on Thanksgiving. I guess I stupidly thought that since it was my kitchen and Halloween, things would be different. And they were. Kind of. While the house was still standing and the kitchen only somewhat saucy, but not damaged, the result was more sauce than the local supermarket sold in a year. How could I get Aunt Nozzie, my grandmothers, and all that sauce out of my house before Thanksgiving?
As I scrubbed my kitchen, I glanced at the wall calendar with trepidation. Less than three weeks until Thanksgiving, and the Farmer’s Almanac had predicted a winter with record snowfalls. That RV wasn’t moving out of my drive until spring. I’d have to find them another way back to Illinois, not only for my sanity, but for the protection of my house, my neighbor, and perhaps the entire community. If Halloween and previous Thanksgiving celebrations were any indication, I feared for what could happen not only on Christmas, but New Year’s when Aunt Nozzie would insist I find her a date for the evening, and that meant I could hardly l
eave my grandmothers out. I was certain that they wouldn’t want to share Mr. Smith, and I was equally sure he wouldn’t want to be shared. And then there was the issue of fireworks. I thought about my family and explosions and had to sit down and catch my breath. Valentine’s Day immediately popped into my mind—imagine my two grandmothers invading nearby retirement homes looking for men to be their valentines. I was certain they would want to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day by dyeing the town’s water supply green. That had to be a felony.
The winter stretched before me, disaster after disaster. And these were people I loved, people whose DNA I shared. Too much of that genetic material in one location couldn’t be good for the area. I owed it to myself and my village to hustle those genes back into the Midwest where they originated. If I had to, I’d gut my savings account to buy all three plane tickets back to Illinois.
Okay, I could get them out of here and on their way home, but there was still the issue of those jars of sauce in my back room.
I heard noise on the stairs. They were up.
Aunt Nozzie made her usual grand entrance, but then, when you’re as tall as she is and are partial to wearing caftans in purple and red, how could entering a room be anything other than grand?
“Oh, wonderful! It’s snowing. I’ve always wanted to try skiing,” she said, pressing her nose against the window glass and clapping her hands together with glee. My two grandmothers nodded their heads in agreement.
And now I had something else to worry about.
Après She
It snowed that entire week, and the roads were impassable. Classes at the college I worked at were cancelled, and we were stuck inside with few supplies. A friend of mine who has a four-wheel drive vehicle dropped by to ask if we needed anything. I started to jot down a list of food items. Aunt Nozzie added to the list:
2 gallons Southern comfort
Lime juice
The Killer Wore Cranberry: A Fifth Course of Chaos Page 10
