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Beneath the Lime Tree

My mother introduced the Thanksgiving tradition of chasing my terrified little brother Jason around the house with a raw turkey neck when he was three years old. The cherished custom continued for five years, and I looked forward to it each November almost as much as I did to eating mountains of mashed potatoes with turkey gravy as well as helping myself to my mother’s homemade cheese ball.

It all started as a moment of cruel inspiration on my mother’s part. On Thanksgiving morning she was busy unwrapping and preparing the turkey in our kitchen on 8th Street in Ramona as Jason looked on curiously. “Getting ready to cook the turkey, Mommy?”

“Mm hmm. But first I have to get rid of the giblets and neck.”

“What’s giblets?”

“The organs,” our mother said, pulling the giblets from the turkey. “Including them in the turkey seems like an enormous waste of time, if you asked me, but I suppose someone must eat them or they wouldn’t insist on putting them in here. I don’t know who could think about eating organs when you have such a potentially wonderful meal right in front of you, but I guess there’s no accounting for taste. Even our cats won’t eat them. And as for the neck, I think you’re supposed to use it to make some sort of dreadful gravy, but, thank goodness, I would never do anything so hideous.

“And before we pop it in the oven, we, of course, have to first give the turkey a nice herb butter massage, but not before,” she said, plunging a hand inside the turkey, “getting rid of the neck.” She pulled it from the turkey’s cavity and held it up for Jason to see.

“It looks icky,” Jason observed, scrunching up his face.

“It certainly does,” our mother said as if truly seeing a turkey neck for the first time in her life. “Would you like a little nibble, Jason?” She asked playfully, thrusting the salmonella inducing neck toward him.

“No,” Jason said, taking a cautionary step backward.

“Oh, come on, Jason,” our mother urged, taking a step forward. “You can’t honestly know you don’t like something until you’ve tried it, right?”

“No,” Jason uttered again as he frantically shook his head. “I don’t want to try it. It’s not even cooked.” He took another step toward the living room.

“Just one little taste?” she said, reaching the turkey neck out for Jason to sample; she wiggled it up and down enticingly.

Jason recoiled. “No!” he screamed before turning and sprinting out of the kitchen. Our mother was right behind him with the turkey neck in her outstretched hand as if she were playing her own disturbing adaptation of tag.

“Aaaiiee!” Jason screamed in terror. Our mother, laughing the entire time, chased Jason through the living room, where the rest of our family sat watching TV, out the front door, around the porch, back through the living room and, once again, into the kitchen, before he tore out the back door and hid beneath our lime tree.

Our mother stopped the pursuit in the kitchen, where she sat in a chair, doubled over in laughter, her right arm rested on her knee, the turkey neck, still in her hand, jiggled as she laughed. My stepfather, Ross, my other little brother, Joe, and I all thought it was just as amusing as my mother did.

Jason, crying, wouldn’t come out from beneath the lime tree until our mother promised him the turkey neck was securely in the trash for good and that he could have a pilgrim hat shaped sugar cookie.

After the sixth year, the 8th Street Running of the Turkey Neck ceased. I can’t remember why it stopped. Perhaps Jason hid while our mother prepared the turkey or perhaps she had just grown weary of the whole thing, but for whatever reason it stopped happening.

As Jason grew, our mother would arbitrarily attempt to resume the Thanksgiving tradition, but Jason was no longer a small child and his maturity gave him the inner strength to overcome the power that the turkey neck had once held over him.

“Look at what I've got, Jason,” she would say, slightly crouched over as she crept menacingly from the kitchen into the living room with the turkey neck.

“Aw, knock it off already,” he would reply in disgust as our mother approached him with the raw meat.

“Oh, you’re just no fun at all,” she would say, straightening up when Jason refused to grow fearful. “You know, Jason,” she chided, “you were a lot funnier when you were younger.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he scoffed.

To this day Jason still can't see the humor in our mother pursuing him through the house with the raw turkey neck, forcing him to cower beneath the lime tree.

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My mother introduced the Thanksgiving tradition of chasing my terrified little brother Jason around the house with a raw turkey neck when he was three years old. The cherished custom continued for five years, and I looked forward to it each November almost as much as I did to eating mountains of mashed potatoes with turkey gravy as well as helping myself to my mother’s homemade cheese ball.

It all started as a moment of cruel inspiration on my mother’s part. On Thanksgiving morning she was busy unwrapping and preparing the turkey in our kitchen on 8th Street in Ramona as Jason looked on curiously. “Getting ready to cook the turkey, Mommy?”

“Mm hmm. But first I have to get rid of the giblets and neck.”

“What’s giblets?”

“The organs,” our mother said, pulling the giblets from the turkey. “Including them in the turkey seems like an enormous waste of time, if you asked me, but I suppose someone must eat them or they wouldn’t insist on putting them in here. I don’t know who could think about eating organs when you have such a potentially wonderful meal right in front of you, but I guess there’s no accounting for taste. Even our cats won’t eat them. And as for the neck, I think you’re supposed to use it to make some sort of dreadful gravy, but, thank goodness, I would never do anything so hideous.

“And before we pop it in the oven, we, of course, have to first give the turkey a nice herb butter massage, but not before,” she said, plunging a hand inside the turkey, “getting rid of the neck.” She pulled it from the turkey’s cavity and held it up for Jason to see.

“It looks icky,” Jason observed, scrunching up his face.

“It certainly does,” our mother said as if truly seeing a turkey neck for the first time in her life. “Would you like a little nibble, Jason?” She asked playfully, thrusting the salmonella inducing neck toward him.

“No,” Jason said, taking a cautionary step backward.

“Oh, come on, Jason,” our mother urged, taking a step forward. “You can’t honestly know you don’t like something until you’ve tried it, right?”

“No,” Jason uttered again as he frantically shook his head. “I don’t want to try it. It’s not even cooked.” He took another step toward the living room.

“Just one little taste?” she said, reaching the turkey neck out for Jason to sample; she wiggled it up and down enticingly.

Jason recoiled. “No!” he screamed before turning and sprinting out of the kitchen. Our mother was right behind him with the turkey neck in her outstretched hand as if she were playing her own disturbing adaptation of tag.

“Aaaiiee!” Jason screamed in terror. Our mother, laughing the entire time, chased Jason through the living room, where the rest of our family sat watching TV, out the front door, around the porch, back through the living room and, once again, into the kitchen, before he tore out the back door and hid beneath our lime tree.

Our mother stopped the pursuit in the kitchen, where she sat in a chair, doubled over in laughter, her right arm rested on her knee, the turkey neck, still in her hand, jiggled as she laughed. My stepfather, Ross, my other little brother, Joe, and I all thought it was just as amusing as my mother did.

Jason, crying, wouldn’t come out from beneath the lime tree until our mother promised him the turkey neck was securely in the trash for good and that he could have a pilgrim hat shaped sugar cookie.

After the sixth year, the 8th Street Running of the Turkey Neck ceased. I can’t remember why it stopped. Perhaps Jason hid while our mother prepared the turkey or perhaps she had just grown weary of the whole thing, but for whatever reason it stopped happening.

As Jason grew, our mother would arbitrarily attempt to resume the Thanksgiving tradition, but Jason was no longer a small child and his maturity gave him the inner strength to overcome the power that the turkey neck had once held over him.

“Look at what I've got, Jason,” she would say, slightly crouched over as she crept menacingly from the kitchen into the living room with the turkey neck.

“Aw, knock it off already,” he would reply in disgust as our mother approached him with the raw meat.

“Oh, you’re just no fun at all,” she would say, straightening up when Jason refused to grow fearful. “You know, Jason,” she chided, “you were a lot funnier when you were younger.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he scoffed.

To this day Jason still can't see the humor in our mother pursuing him through the house with the raw turkey neck, forcing him to cower beneath the lime tree.

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Comments
7

Quilly, that was a very funny story!! Moms can be quite cruel in their using of us for their amusement. Okay, one time I was mixing meatloaf (about eight years old) and when I pulled my meat-encased hands out of the bowl, my mom said "put your hands down and see if the cats want to lick the meat off". Which I naively did, and the cats proceeded to go ape-shit on my hands, clawing and scratching, me howling in pain, until I managed to somehow extract my poor hands from that hornets nest, only to look over and see my mom practically rolling on the floor in laughter, trying to say she was sorry, she had no idea the cats would react like that (I honestly think she really did not know), crying and gasping for breath. To this day she still thinks it is hysterical.

Oct. 1, 2010

oh Quill...i'm so lucky today...both u and Refried put up new blogs today...bless u both!!

and i so love the Thanksgiving memory of ur ubercool and ubermean mom...i can see myself being like that...hahahahahahahaha

did Jason ever pull the same trick on any of his kids???

for years i told my kids that the special coconut chocolate macaroon cookies we had on Thanksgiving were made my my tired little hands

when they found out as adults i hadn't they threatened to disown me

Oct. 1, 2010

grantie...now i know absolutely where ur love for cats comes from...hahahahahahahaha

Oct. 1, 2010

That was a good one, MsGrant! Who knows what pushed your cat over the edge--maybe it was the ketchup! Moms can be cruel, but so can sisters. We just had a family reunion last weekend, and my mom, who is 65, brought up the time when she was two years old and her older sister, Poli, who is now 70, told her to stand on the red ant hill. "Go ahead, Kathy," Poli said, "just stand on the ant hill. They won't hurt you." Needless to say, they did hurt her. Quite a bit too.

Oct. 1, 2010

Cats, Quilly, cats. Not just one, four. Never underestimate your cats' love of ketchup!!

Okay, sisters are the worst. One time, me and my older sister told our middle sister if she ran out to the car naked (she was probably 6, I was all of four, the eldest 7) we would give her a quarter. It was dead winter in New York. As she ran out, touched the car and started to run back, my older sister slammed the door and locked it. She stood out there screaming until my sister finally let her in, laughing and howling while our middle sister cried. She did make good on the quarter. I prefer to think that I was just an innocent bystander to all this because of my age, but if the truth be told I was laughing too.

Oct. 1, 2010

Of course you were MsGrant, as would the rest of us who have brothers and/or sisters. And, nan, your kids should be more forgiving. Coconut chocolate macaroons can be served with tired, loving hands as well as made by them.

Oct. 1, 2010

it was the ketchup yells Dr Peanut!!!

i'm taking the 5th...hahahahahahahahaha...loving and cantankerous siblings and cats make the best friends

Oct. 1, 2010

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