LIVING WHO’S THE TURKEY?

IN EARLIER YEARS, everyone helped to prepare for Thanksgiving: The men shot and killed wild turkeys. The women cleaned and cooked the birds. This was known as division of labor. It persisted until grocery stores began to stock frozen turkeys and TV began to broadcast a smorgasbord of football games.

These days, many women still cook a Thanksgiving feast, but the only hunting many men do for Thanksgiving is to switch the TV channel to another Turkey Day classic. And killing a wild turkey has an entirely different meaning. This is known as the division of the sexes. In many traditional households, there are His and Her Thanksgivings.

HERS

8 a.m. Get up. Still wearing a bathrobe, stumble to the kitchen. Notice the puddle of water left on the floor by the thawing turkey.

Make coffee. Throw paper towels on floor. Stare at coffee for several minutes, until it cools. Drink slowly. Start to wake up and worry about having meal finished by late afternoon.

Will the 12-pound turkey be thawed? The potatoes lumpy? The gravy separated?

Decide not to worry. Take action, instead.

Put oven on preheat. Pull dressing out of refrigerator. Ready to go-complete with eggs, celery, oysters (made it last night). Begin to stuff turkey. Halfway through, realize you’ve forgotten to pull out bag of gizzards. \ank out dressing, then half-frozen bag of gizzards. Restuff turkey.

Melt butter. Baste turkey. Make little aluminum-foil tent over turkey. Shove turkey into blazing oven and slam door shut.

Sit down with second cup of coffee. Stare at it for several more minutes.

Gradually become aware of din in background. Parade music. Kids must be watching annual Macy’s parade.

HIS

9 a.m. Hear music in the background. Parade music. Kids must be watching annual Macy’s parade.

Briefly consider wonderful day ahead: football, football, football.

Turn over and catch a few more winks. You need your sleep for the long day ahead.

HERS

10 a.m. Fourth cup of coffee. Still not awake.

Decide to set table. Wedding china, packed away for months, is dusty. Load it into dishwasher. Iron tablecloth and cloth napkins. Set table with flatware, china, napkins, candlesticks, fresh flowers.

Kids emerge, announcing that the parade was boring. What’s for breakfast?

HIS

11 a.m. Notice wonderful aroma. Turkey.

Glance quickly at clock. Relieved to see it’s more than an hour before game time. Still, better get up.

Wander downstairs. What’s for breakfast?

HERS

Noon. Making broccoli casserole. Note that broccoli is overcooked, limp. Consider that everything is limp in a casserole, anyway. Decide not to worry.

Begin to boil cranberries with orange rind and sugar.

Pull turkey out and baste with juices.

Sit down and begin to peel potatoes.

Sister and brother-in-law and children arrive, pounding on front door. Armed with pumpkin and mincemeat pies. Brother-in-law, beer in hand, disappears.

Notice roar from TV set.

HIS

12:30 p.m. Certain you’re in heaven. Sprawled out in front of TV. Watching Packers play Lions.

Crummy game, you tell your brother-in-law. But just a warm-up. Dallas-New England should be better.

Try to make bet with brother-in-law. He says there’s no way he’ll bet on the Packers. What do you take him for, anyway?

Decide not to tell him.

HERS

2 p.m. Headache beginning. Don’t want to hear for the fifth time how your sister was cheated out of PTA presidency.

Potatoes boiling. Turnips boiling. Kitchen hot and damp. Baste turkey once again.

HIS

3 p.m. Game boring beyond belief. Decide to test brother-in-law on football trivia:

In the Thanksgiving 1974 Dallas-Washington game, who was Dallas’ reserve quarterback who threw last-minute touchdown pass that won the game, 24-23?

Clint Longley, he says. The Mad Bomber.

Decide your brother-in-law is even more boring than the game.

Holler to your wife you want another beer.

No answer; an ominous sign.

HERS

3:30 p.m. Headache getting worse.

Potatoes won’t mash smoothly. Gelatin mold resembles orange avalanche. Broccoli still limp.

Sister talking about the PTA presidency.

Stab at potatoes with renewed vigor.

HIS

3:59 p.m. Decide that if you’re ever going to get another beer, you’ll have to get it yourself. Have to hurry before next game starts.

Enter kitchen. Note that turkey still smells good, but kitchen is a mess. Dishes, puddles of grease everywhere.

Notice empty packages of bread crumbs in wastebasket. Remind wife that your mother used to make everything from scratch.

Retreat quickly. Wonder why women are so hostile these days.

HERS

4:30 p.m. String beans cooking. Broccoli casserole cooling. Hot rolls steaming.

Kids say they’re starving.

HIS

4:45 p.m. Exchange views with brother-in-law on how much you hate the Packers.

Tell him you remember Tony Dorsett before he started pronouncing his name strangely.

Brother-in-law says he remembers John Chancellor before he pronounced his name strangely, too.

Tired of one-upmanship; wish our brother-in-law weren’t so competitive. Consider making a run into the kitchen for another beer. Discard the idea.

HERS

5 p.m. Making gravy. Flour on bottom, grease on top. Stir faster.

Turkey, finally out of oven, is getting cold.

Mashed potatoes on table, along with turnips, cranberries, gelatin disaster.

Scream for someone to please carve the turkey.

Hear someone scream back to wait until halftime.

HIS

5:30 p.m. Why doesn’t someone stop Dorsett?

Will smash in TV screen soon. Especially if you have to see another Roger Staubach commercial for Rolaids.

Wish wife weren’t making so much racket in the kitchen.

HERS

6 p.m. Dinner getting colder.

Sister in tears over the PTA.

Hear crash and howls from living room. Discover that kids had been playing Frisbee with one of the plates.

HIS

7 p.m. Sitting at table. Feeling quite satisfied.

Your team finally pulled it out in the end, you say. Just in time.

Silence.

Decide to make joke. Say, after watching games, you feel limp-just like the broccoli.

Note that joke isn’t well-received. Wonder what happened to wife’s sense of humor.

HERS

7:05 p.m. Keep telling yourself: It’s only once a year.