Life Sketches by Terry Berkson

Turkey Fishing: a Christmas Story

One Christmas, we almost had a perfect storm for disaster. Our well was running low. Our stove was on the fritz and we foolishly bought a frozen Butterball turkey only a couple of days before the holiday. When the stove repair man arrived and came up with a grave diagnosis, things looked dismal—the main board, which amounts to the brain of an electric stove, wasn’t working right. After a call to the supply house we were informed that the part was no longer available.

This left us with only the lower, smaller oven working. My wife, Alice, often uses it to bake pies and other low-profile dishes—but not a turkey! We needed to buy a new stove, but unfortunately during the busy holiday season it would take several days to have one delivered.

“I told you to get it fixed two weeks ago,” Alice scolded as I looked sheepishly at the frozen turkey that was sitting in the sink under the faucet that was spewing our precious water. Now, I had to come up with a solution. To get the turkey to fit in that shallow lower drawer, we’d have to cut it in half the long way and lay it down so that the breast and legs wouldn’t be burned by the low hung electric heating coil.

“How do you cut a frozen turkey in half?” my wife asked.

“I’ll get the wood splitter.”

“No you won’t!” Alice objected.

I had another idea. Running water’s the best way to quick thaw a turkey. It exchanges the BTUs much more rapidly than exposure to plain air. The more water the better. With the well already low, I didn’t want to waste anymore H2O. Patches’ Pond was just down the road. I’d set the turkey in the pond with its unlimited amount of water and the bird would thaw out in no time.

“You’re going to put the turkey in that muddy, frog-filled pond?” Alice protested.

“It’s wrapped in plastic,” I countered.

“Plastic schmastic. It’s a smelly idea!”

“The kids are coming—for Christmas!” I reasoned. “What’ll we give them to eat?”

“If you listened to me,” she answered, “and called the repair man when I told you to, we would have known we needed a new stove.”

“That’s water under the bridge,” I said. “Speaking of water…”

I shut the faucet, lifted the turkey out of the sink, and headed for my pickup. When I arrived at the pond, I was surprised to find it had shrunk to a much lower level. So, I got a piece of rope from the truck, tied it around the turkey’s leg and tossed it into the water several feet from shore. Then I secured the rope to a nearby sapling. A cold gust of wind made me put down my ear flaps and engage the top button of my coat.

That night, I put the finishing touches on the tree as Alice busied herself preparing the ingredients for stuffing, candied sweet potatoes, plum pudding, apple pie, struffoli and the rest.

Christmas songs were melting out of the radio as a cold wind howled outside. I pictured Patches’ Pond working on the turkey. After a little coaxing, Alice admitted that I had come up with an ingenious last-minute solution. The kids would be arriving the next day.

In the morning, I drove over to the pond to pull in the thawed-out turkey but was shocked to find that the small body of water had frozen over. I untied the rope from the tree and began to pull, but the ice held fast and the turkey didn’t move. I yanked several times but didn’t even hear a crack, so I tied the rope to a stick that served as a handle for more leverage and pulled as hard as I could. The turkey didn’t budge. I was afraid that if I pulled any more the rope would break or the turkey’s leg would come off. Just then, a pickup truck that was passing by came to a sliding halt.

A bearded guy rolled down his window and yelled, “What are you fishing for?”

I thought fast and answered, “Bullheads.”

“That’s a pretty heavy line for bullheads,” the trucker observed.

“There’s some big ones in here,” I returned as the guy shook his head, rolled up his window and took off.

I didn’t want to risk stepping out on the ice, so I drove back to the barn where I found a metal fence post that I thought was long enough to chop an open channel to my ice-bound bird. The blade on the post worked like a charm and in no time I hauled in my turkey. It was thawed out enough to be cut in half.

In short order, Alice loaded the split bird into the lower oven drawer. The unusual location made her bend many times to check the cooking progress. When the turkey was ready and roasted to a golden brown, she removed it and we skewered it so that it sat proudly in one piece for a photo of the Christmas table. The kids didn’t seem to notice that the two halves were pinned together. No one had an inkling of my having fished the bird out of the pond in the morning. There were 10 of us seated and at one point I was alarmed to hear the word “frog,” but it was just my grandson telling his little brother not to be a hog—with the cranberry sauce. As I carved the turkey I thought that my wife, from across the table, was flashing looks of admiration in my direction. For sure I had saved Christmas dinner.

Later, as I was helping to dry and put away dishes while most of the family was couched on Tryptophan, my exhausted wife put her arms around me and whispered lovingly, “Terry, I have something else I’d like you to put in the pond.”

“What is it?” I asked, looking toward the freezer.

“Our brainless stove—with the backbreaking lower draw!”

Terry Berkson’s articles have appeared in “New York” magazine, “Automobile” magazine and many others. His memoir, “Corvette Odyssey,” has received many good reviews: “highly recommended with broad appeal,” says “Library Journal.”