Ready for some tofurkey?

Ah! We’re going to have some tofurkey in a few days. We’d better cleanse our palates in preparation for gormandizing.

Tofurkey? It sounds almost like an obscenity, and in a family newspaper! Tofurkey, as you may have conjectured, is a vegetarian alternative to turkey.

I got the word from the vocabulary website “Wordnik.” But that’s as close as I intend to get to it. Learning a new word is not the same as eating what it represents.

And that brings up a slew of Thanksgiving recollections from my youth. Here are some:

One of the most effective ways of getting people to do something they usually oppose is to make them think it was their idea. In the recent past, our city council had the habit of opposing whatever one of their colleagues proposed.

Editorially, the Optic suggested that the oft-outvoted councilman take the opposite position to see whether all seven other solons would switch their stances, just for the pure joy of opposing the other member.

During her teaching career, which has spanned more than 40 years, my wife, Bonnie, has considered playing the it-was-your-idea game. Here’s how:

Knowing an administrator’s slant toward some kind of school matter, Bonnie once planted the it-was-your-idea idea during a faculty meeting. “Well, I believe the principal was leaning toward asking coaches to pull their share of duty.” A bit surprised, the principal thought about it and must have realized, “Yes, I guess I did consider that.”

Done! But that works only until one is found out, and it can backfire.

That relates to another memory that has to do with who gets what on the table. In my youth, Mom generally served each plate from the stove; no boarding house everything-on-the-table policy for her.

Accordingly, the choicest pieces of the turkey were awarded under the R.H.I.P. standard, which means, “Rank Hath its Privileges”

That meant Dad got the best portions, the breast (can we use that word in a family newspaper?); Mom got a thigh (yes, we can use that word); and the diminishing delicacies got parceled out in order of longevity: Dolores, Dorothy, Severino and Bingy got turkey parts that were palatable and plentiful.

What did Mannie (my nickname) get? Well, obviously the neck, that tender, meaty, scrumptious part of the gobbler that the ax first comes in contact with.

But the awarding of that delectable piece of turkey didn’t come merely from happenstance. I’m convinced there was a mini-conspiracy. A couple of older siblings, hoping they’d qualify for something better, must have planted the idea in Mom’s head that I, the youngest, had been hoping to get the neck.

Done! And the justification for such an award came during Thanksgiving conversation, in which one or two siblings raved about how fortunate I had been, and how generous the others had been, agreeing that I have the turkey neck all to myself.

Did you ever notice that the main topic of discussion at meals like Thanksgiving is the food itself? It’s obligatory that the diners make some comments about the (greatness of the) food. Thereupon, the cook, protesting that “It’s really nothing, no big deal, just something I threw together,” savors the compliment and begins the first leg of a recipe recitation, for which, I suppose, we’re required to take notes.

Of course, the foregoing seems a bit cynical, as if trying to memorize a recipe is not worth the price of the cook’s efforts. Let me say now that, given the quality of turkey necks that I’ve consumed in my youth, listening to a litany of ingredients is worth it.

I wonder how many times the Trujillo family scenario is replicated around Thanksgiving tables all over. Surely, there are some similarly fortunate youngest family members who get the slim pickings.

Turkeys weren’t necessarily parceled out on the basis of rank or seniority at Thanksgiving dinner at Immaculate Conception School, in the ‘50s. No, better yet, people needed to line up alphabetically.

What bit of dogma in Catholic theology dictates that people whose surnames begin with a letter toward the front of the alphabet deserve the turkey breasts and thighs? What was our homeroom teacher, Sister Mary Pavo Gordo, thinking by having the Trujillos, Wassons, Vigils, Zummachs and Zamoras be content with turkey feathers, room-temperature gravy, and the wattle?

Without expounding too much on the unfairness of things arranged alphabetically, suffice to say there would have been even bigger riots on Titanic if the captain had announced, “Please board the lifeboats in alphabetical order.”

A final Thanksgiving recollection comes from having many meals at the home of my in-laws in Springer. The first turkey dinner I had there was great, if a wee bit filling.

My belief is that the only really edible part of the turkey is the dark meat. White meat is all right, kind of like a lifetime of vanilla. Dark meat is where the action is.

During my first meal with the Coppocks, I took a turkey drumstick and later helped myself to more. Long after the meal, when it’s time to make turkey stew, turkey sandwiches, turkey casseroles and even turkey floats and frappes, I noticed a large amount of dark meat remaining in the fridge.

Were the Coppocks merely being generous, realizing how much I enjoyed the dark stuff? Actually, they were glad I’d consumed as much dark meat as I had. The dark meat was w-a-y down on the Coppocks’ list of culinary preferences.

I’m thankful for that.

Have a happy Thanksgiving.