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Turkey day, 1986, 4:00 a.m.&151;my first Thanksgiving as a married woman. Being the naive newlywed I was, I'd offered to have the in-laws over and cook the big bird with all the trimmings at our house. But my day didn't start with a dressed gobbler in the oven like the Thanksgiving mornings of my youth. Instead, I had to host a morning radio show at the local station where I worked. Four hours later, I'd be free to put my holiday menu into motion-turkey, homemade sage stuffing, and fresh cranberry sauce. Like many working women, my fall schedule was so packed, I'd saved all my preparations for Thursday morning itself. That was my first mistake.
When my stint on the air was over, I made a mad dash for my car and tore out of the parking lot, visions of creamed onions dancing in my head.
I should've been envisioning my speedometer instead. Or at the very least, my rearview mirror. I was up to my elbows in tossed Bibb lettuce when my culinary daydream was cut short by the whine of a police siren. Suddenly I found myself fumbling for the brake pedal.
Surely Louisville's finest wasn't pulling me over? I cautiously steered toward the curb and parked.
"Ma'am, do you have any idea how fast you were driving?" the officer began, his face as stony as Mount Rushmore.
"No, sir," I said with complete sincerity as I handed over my driver's license.
"I clocked you at fifty-three miles per hour. The speed limit is thirty-five."
My gulp was audible. "Oh! I had no idea I was driving that fast!" At least I was honest. "I was just so excited about celebrating my first Thanksgiving dinner with my new husband! I'm really very sorry," I added meekly, dabbing at my eyes.
"I'll let you off this time, just because it's a holiday. But if I ever pull you over again … "
I nodded emphatically as I stuffed the license back in my wallet, rolled up the window, and eased back into traffic, giving thanks to my heavenly Father. I also drove ten miles per hour the rest of the way home.
When I bolted through our front door, I found my husband, Bill, stretched out on the couch watching the Macy's parade. "Help! Help!" I shouted, snapping off the television. "We have a whole house to clean, a huge meal to cook, and I almost got arrested!"
"Arrested?!"
"Okay, it was more like a warning for speeding." I shrugged as Bill shook his head, then I pressed on to the task at hand. "Do you want to vacuum or dust?"
"Definitely vacuum," Bill assured me, reaching for the remote control. "Let me know when you're done dusting, and then I'll get started."
Feather duster in hand, I attacked every dust-covered surface with a vengeance, keeping one wary eye on the clock. So much to cook, so little time.
At eleven I finally dragged the twenty-pound turkey out of the fridge and prepared to do battle. Although I was a novice, I'd done my homework. I knew the plastic wrap came off first, then the giblets and other yucky stuff had to be taken out of the bird before you stuffed it.
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