My late Dad was an unforgettable man, whose loving heart and fund of wisdom and humor we miss daily. But he had his irascible side too. We tell this story every year, and every year still find it funny.
It was Seder night one Passover about 30 years ago. My younger sister and I had been commanded by our Dad to remove the huge roasted turkey from its pan and shift it onto a platter, bringing to the table in state. The turkey was Dad's big specialty; he had made the stuffing himself according to his own recipe, hovered over it, lovingly basted it, and expected to present it at just the right point at the Passover feast. A handsome, eligible young man was among the guests. Dad wanted either one of us to marry him, he really was a catch. He was well-educated, an open, engaging sort of person, well-established in his own business, and the son of an old friend. My sister and I called him Prince Charming (nice guy, but not really our type, and besides, we found the idea of being set up insulting).
So Sis and I, relieved not to be sitting at the table making polite conversation, squatted down in front of the oven to transfer the monster bird out onto its serving plate. It looked beautiful; crispy skinned yet succulent, and the potato kugel stuffing smelled divine, but it was heavy, very heavy, and difficult to manipulate out of the deep, hot roasting pan. I shifted the platter around, tryng to angle it for Sis's convenience, but the pan was wavering dangerously in her hands, made clumsy by the thick oven mitts.
"You're doing it all wrong," I said to Sis, "hold the pan like this."
"No, stupid," she replied with a giggle, "it'll fall out of the pan."
"You're going to drop the whole thing," I insisted, alarmed but beginning to laugh myself.
This was taking too much time. The family and guests were waiting for the main event, and Sis and I were just not getting it together. In fact, the harder it was to get the damn turkey out of the oven, the funnier it seemed, and the more it slipped and tipped and threatened to land on the flloor, the sillier we got.
Dad appeared at the kitchen door. He took everything in at a glance, and took decisive action.
"You morons!" he roared, which got us hysterical, of course. We both sat on the floor and laughed our fool heads off, still holding onto the roasting pan with its precious contents threatening to fall out.
"You morons!" Dad roared again. Sis and I stood up and staggered around the kitchen, heaving with laughter while Dad, infuriated, kept roaring (switching to "Useless morons," upon which we had to hold onto each other to keep from falling down) - while a deathly silence reigned in the dining room.
Well, Dad rescued the turkey and plopped it onto the platter. Giving us the Death-Ray look, he bore it to the dining room, while Sis and I wiped our eyes and composed ourselves, more or less.
Prince Charming ate plenty of turkey, but never did ask either of us for a date. Oh well.
Miriam
It was Seder night one Passover about 30 years ago. My younger sister and I had been commanded by our Dad to remove the huge roasted turkey from its pan and shift it onto a platter, bringing to the table in state. The turkey was Dad's big specialty; he had made the stuffing himself according to his own recipe, hovered over it, lovingly basted it, and expected to present it at just the right point at the Passover feast. A handsome, eligible young man was among the guests. Dad wanted either one of us to marry him, he really was a catch. He was well-educated, an open, engaging sort of person, well-established in his own business, and the son of an old friend. My sister and I called him Prince Charming (nice guy, but not really our type, and besides, we found the idea of being set up insulting).
So Sis and I, relieved not to be sitting at the table making polite conversation, squatted down in front of the oven to transfer the monster bird out onto its serving plate. It looked beautiful; crispy skinned yet succulent, and the potato kugel stuffing smelled divine, but it was heavy, very heavy, and difficult to manipulate out of the deep, hot roasting pan. I shifted the platter around, tryng to angle it for Sis's convenience, but the pan was wavering dangerously in her hands, made clumsy by the thick oven mitts.
"You're doing it all wrong," I said to Sis, "hold the pan like this."
"No, stupid," she replied with a giggle, "it'll fall out of the pan."
"You're going to drop the whole thing," I insisted, alarmed but beginning to laugh myself.
This was taking too much time. The family and guests were waiting for the main event, and Sis and I were just not getting it together. In fact, the harder it was to get the damn turkey out of the oven, the funnier it seemed, and the more it slipped and tipped and threatened to land on the flloor, the sillier we got.
Dad appeared at the kitchen door. He took everything in at a glance, and took decisive action.
"You morons!" he roared, which got us hysterical, of course. We both sat on the floor and laughed our fool heads off, still holding onto the roasting pan with its precious contents threatening to fall out.
"You morons!" Dad roared again. Sis and I stood up and staggered around the kitchen, heaving with laughter while Dad, infuriated, kept roaring (switching to "Useless morons," upon which we had to hold onto each other to keep from falling down) - while a deathly silence reigned in the dining room.
Well, Dad rescued the turkey and plopped it onto the platter. Giving us the Death-Ray look, he bore it to the dining room, while Sis and I wiped our eyes and composed ourselves, more or less.
Prince Charming ate plenty of turkey, but never did ask either of us for a date. Oh well.
Miriam
