Roanoke Times
                 Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.

DATE: TUESDAY, November 21, 1995                   TAG: 9511210064
SECTION: CURRENT                    PAGE: NRV-2   EDITION: NEW RIVER VALLEY 
SOURCE: ALLISON BLAKE
DATELINE:                                 LENGTH: Medium

PERFECT TURKEY DINNER MAY STILL NEED MOM'S HELP

No, the issue was how to acquire a turkey, such that it was cooked to perfection by the time the family sat down to dinner.

Should she order one precooked?

Chefs in homes across America know that the greatest rite of culinary passage is the test of how the turkey comes out.

"I'm scared, quite frankly," she said, when she finally decided she'd cook the bird herself.

I know I was nervous the first time I cooked a turkey.

My mother, only seconds away via phone, was reassuring. It's easy, she said. Just get one with the little plastic temperature gauge in it, and when it pops out, the turkey's done.

I didn't altogether believe her, having opted to complicate matters by making stuffing and gravy, so I told her I'd call her when I put the turkey in the oven. She tried to discourage me, but her phone nonetheless rang at 6 a.m. on Thanksgiving morning, 1988.

"I'm taking the plastic off," I reported.

The next year, the turkey came out just fine without the phone call.

But this year will mark both the first time I've cooked a turkey since then, and the first time ever that my parents have come to our house for Thanksgiving.

Mom asked what she could bring, and I told her to bring the makings for cranberry orange relish.

Back when we were children, my sister and I anticipated this annual first ritual of the winter holiday season. Mom got out her gothic-looking meat grinder, passed down by her own mother, and my sister and I split up the chores. One of us had to chop oranges; one got to clean the cranberries. This was the fun job, akin to being the sibling who got to sit next to the window in the big back seat of the car. I can still feel those round, wet berries slipping around in the colander.

Then came the best part: Cranking the oranges and cranberries through the meat grinder, with a bowl set - imagine! - on the floor to catch the juice. Given the strict standards of sanitation in the Blake kitchen (hairbrushing was roundly banned) I could never quite reconcile putting a bowl in actual culinary use on the actual kitchen floor. But the juice dribbled down the meat grinder, landing more or less in the bowl, and afterward, we would drink up the contents, sweetened with a little sugar. Mom sometimes even let us put it in wineglasses, and we toasted with "nectar of the gods" and pretended we were in fairyland.

In our phone call last week, Mom pointed out they'll be en route Thanksgiving morning, so she won't be able to oversee the making of the cranberry orange relish - or give me advice.

But I intend to be up and about before they leave their home, on the off-chance the old fear-of-failure should arise - and I need a little maternal refresher course on how to cook the turkey.