Ah, Thanksgiving—a time for gratitude, family togetherness, and that inevitable moment when something goes terribly, hilariously wrong.
Years ago, back when I was still navigating the treacherous waters of Thanksgiving with my ex-in-laws, I witnessed an event so legendary, so utterly catastrophic, that it has been branded into my holiday memories forever. I found myself in the middle of what can only be described as The Great Turkey Tumble.
The Setup
Let me set the scene. The house was packed—shoulder-to-shoulder, elbow-to-elbow kind of packed—but the kitchen? The kitchen was not. It was a postage stamp of a space, barely large enough for one person to pivot, let alone a full Thanksgiving operation.
My ex-mother-in-law—queen of the kitchen, commander of casseroles, and undisputed ruler of the Thanksgiving turkey—was in her element. She took her turkey very seriously. We’re talking military-grade precision, treating it with the level of care typically reserved for newborns and winning lottery tickets.
That bird had been brined, basted, and buttered within an inch of its life. She’d been up since the crack of dawn, lovingly tending to her 20-pound masterpiece as if it were the last turkey on Earth, ensuring it reached golden-brown perfection.
Meanwhile, my ex-father-in-law had contributed absolutely nothing to the meal beyond supervising from his recliner—until the exact moment when, inexplicably, he was entrusted with the single most important transfer operation of the day: moving the turkey from the roasting pan to the serving platter.
The Fall Heard ‘Round the Kitchen
With the confidence of a man who had never done this before but assumed he was a natural, my ex-FIL gripped the turkey with two oversized carving forks—an objectively terrible choice of tool—and lifted.
For a glorious, fleeting second, it looked like he had it under control.
And then—disaster.
Somewhere between the roasting pan and the counter, that beautifully basted bird took flight.
The turkey launched itself from his grip, executing a full-floor routine straight out of the Olympic Games. I swear, if there had been judges present, that bird would’ve scored at least a 9.5.
It twisted mid-air, momentarily defying gravity, before an unholy THWUMP.
A deep, wet, unmistakable thud as it stuck the landing… right on the kitchen floor.
Silence.
The three of us, the only three who would ever know what really happened, stood frozen, staring at the fallen bird.
My ex-MIL’s jaw dropped.
My ex-FIL—miraculously still breathing.
And then, the debate began.
The Aftermath
Ex-MIL (eerily calm): “Well. That’s ruined.”
Ex-FIL (innocently): “Is it?”
Oh no.
With the same casual energy one might use when deciding whether to eat a cookie that fell on the carpet, my ex-FIL scratched his head and muttered, “Three-second rule?”
This did not land well.
Me: “Three-second rule?” (Was he serious? I had no idea.)
Ex-MIL: “THREE. SECOND. RULE?! This isn’t a potato chip, Frank! IT’S THE DAMN TURKEY!”
Ex-FIL: “Says who?”
Ex-MIL: “Common sense.”
(Side note: This was the same woman who once rinsed off a dropped piece of cream cheese-filled celery, patted it dry, and served it anyway, so let’s not pretend we were dealing with the gold standard of hygiene here.)
Meanwhile, my ex-FIL—fully committed to his cause—had already begun inspecting the turkey, which really just meant flipping it over with a carving fork and muttering, “A little dirt never killed anybody.”
Ex-FIL: “Looks fine to me.”
Ex-MIL: “It was just on the FLOOR.”
Ex-FIL: “Floors are clean!”
Ex-MIL: “You tracked in mud from the yard this morning.”
Ex-FIL: “…Gravy will cover that.”
At this point, I had to physically remove myself from the room before I choked on my own laughter.
My ex-MIL, still fuming, banished my ex-FIL from the kitchen and broke out the emergency casseroles she had wisely stashed in the fridge. Thanksgiving was saved – if slightly less traditional.
The Turkey’s Fate
The turkey? Well… I won’t say exactly what happened next. Let’s just say the gravy was noticeably a little heavier on the black pepper than usual, and there may or may not have been some extra seasoning involved. And if anyone at that table noticed a slight grittiness to their meal, they were polite enough not to ask too many questions.
The best part? The casseroles were amazing. I filled up entirely on my ex-MIL’s stuffing—a stuffing so good it could make you forget about any poultry-related tragedies.
To this day, I regret never managing to get her recipe. That stuffing remains a mystery, much like the true fate of the turkey that year.
Nobody got sick. Nobody died. And yet, somehow, nobody ever spoke of it again.
Even my ex-MIL, who could hold a grudge longer than a deep freezer holds leftovers, never mentioned it. But every Thanksgiving after that, she handled the turkey herself.
Moral of the Story?
Always, always have a backup ham.
Happy Thanksgiving. May your turkey stay exactly where it belongs—on the platter, not the floor.
As the Raven gathers shiny treasures, may this season bring you moments to cherish, stories to share, and gratitude to carry forward.
Wishing you a Thanksgiving filled with warmth, laughter, and good company,
Deb, HDRW
“Like the raven, may we find joy in the simple things, wisdom in the past, and gratitude in the journey ahead.”
