The Reverend Billy Graham’s lovely wife
Ruth once said; “I don’t believe in
divorce—but I have considered
murder.” I’ve always liked that woman. I’m
sure Ruthie and I would get along quite
well. Of course I have no intention of ever
bringing harm to Frank but to deny fleeting
feelings of aggression would be ingenuine.
Allow me to share the story of the smoked
turkey. (Well, it actually goes much deeper
than the smoked turkey, but you already
knew that.)
After 20 years of marriage, I thought
it would be safe to assume certain
things. A reasonable person should be
aware of the likes and dislikes of their
spouse. A reasonable person should have
some idea of what kind of gift their
mate would enjoy or where they would
like to spend a vacation. A reasonable
person should be able to expect his or
her mate to bring home an entertaining
video from Blockbuster. A reasonable
person should know their mate’s opinion
of wasabi, lentils, goat cheese, curried
chicken, root beer, and smoked turkey.
Well…Frank has been unreasonable.
My husband works a half-day on most
Saturdays. He says it keeps him ahead of
the curve. He says it makes him more
confident on Monday mornings. He says he
needs to be a good example to the
others. I say he’s escaping Saturday
morning chores around the house and that
he loves breakfast at the diner, the
morning paper and Starbucks. I let it
go—because I’m reasonable.
My husband’s favorite comedy is “It’s a
Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World” and his
favorite drama is “Twelve Angry Men.”
Whenever he stops to rent a movie, he
usually brings home one or the other.
When he’s in the mood for high
adventure, he shows up with “The Great
Escape.” I used to enjoy those three
films but now I dislike them. (The
children have memorized the scripts.) I
smile and watch---because I’m
reasonable.
My husband gave me “sleepwear” for my
last birthday. Of course, nobody could
actually sleep in the item he bought
because it would give any woman a royal
wedgie. I held it up to the light three
different ways to figure out where the
escape hatch was, but to no avail. I
wore it (okay---only once,) because I’m
reasonable. Now let’s move on to the
smoked turkey saga.
My husband occasionally brings home cold
cuts and rolls on Saturday afternoons.
Of course, that’s a kind effort and we
deeply appreciate the gesture. He has
known me more than twenty years and he
has known the children all their lives.
The children and I abhor smoked turkey.
It’s usually pinkish and tastes more
like very salty ham. We find the smoked
taste quite despicable. On the other
hand, we love the roasted homestyle
turkey which they will gladly slice (any
thickness one desires) at our local
supermarket. It is quite delicious,
always fresh, never salty and by
gosh---it tastes just like turkey. For
variety, we enjoy roast beef, ham and
Swiss cheese. Whenever Frank arrives
with smoked turkey (always a pound of
it), he also brings American salami that
tastes just like hot dogs (always a
pound of it). We do not enjoy either of
those items. Never have---never will.
However, we say grace, spread a half a
cup of mayo on the roll and eat what’s
in front of us---because we’re
reasonable.
I’ve talked to Frank numerous times
about the family’s food preferences,
with extra emphasis on my own particular
tastes. One Saturday, Frank arrived home
from his half day of work at 2:15. We
expected him by 12:30 but he called at
1:45 to say he was running late. He said
he had just pulled into the supermarket
and I gently reminded him that we prefer
the homestyle turkey, rolls
without seeds, non-sour
pickles and plain potato chips. I
believe his parting words were “Got it.”
We finally sat down to a late lunch at
2:30. I set the table and put out the
condiments and we bowed our heads for
grace. By the time our youngest child
completed her prayer, I lifted my head
to see Frank stuffing things into the
kitchen garbage bin.
“What are you doing?”, I asked him.
“Getting a head start.”
“On what?”
“Cleaning up!”
“Frank, please sit down.” The turkey was
passed (along with a pound of the weird
salami). It looked a kind of pink but
Frank suggested it was probably a bit
undercooked. I assembled my long
anticipated sandwich and took a big bite
while the kids chatted about their week
at vacation bible school. I chatted and
chewed and then my mouth froze.
“Is this smoked turkey?”
“Nope.”
“It tastes like smoked turkey.”
“Well, it’s not.”
“Frank, are you sure?”
“Yep.”
“Did you specifically ask for the
homestyle turkey?”
“I pointed at it through the
glass---it’s homestyle.”
“Did you ever mention “homestyle?”
“Ellie, I told you I pointed at it.”
“This is smoked turkey.”
“But I didn’t ask for smoked
turkey.”
“But you didn’t ask for homestyle
either!”
“It’s fine---just eat it.” I
believe that was the wrong thing for him
to say at that particular moment. Never
mind that the pickles were sour. Never
mind that he brought home a two-liter
bottle of root beer. Never mind that the
rolls had garlic flavoring. My blood
pressure and voice rose simultaneously.
I no longer felt the desire to be
reasonable.
“Whaddya mean ‘Just eat it’---why
do we have to eat smoked turkey when we
hate smoked turkey???” Frank
responded with a
passive-aggressive-quasi-spiritual-reverse-
psychological comment in a calm,
monotonal voice and once again, I looked
like the one with the problem. I shot
back one more objection and proceeded to
eat my smoked turkey on a garlic roll
(with a grateful heart, of course, due
to Frank’s timely statistics concerning
the population of the world facing daily
hunger.) UGHHH!
The lunch “God provided” was eaten, the
kids scrambled in three directions and
Frank grabbed the paper and went for a
nap. I cleared and rinsed and wiped and
lifted the garbage bin to discard the
paper plates. There they were; the
wrapping of the cold cuts with the price
tags and labels affixed. The first
crunched bag: “Hard Salami.”---the
second: “Smoked Turkey.” I descended the
basement steps, bag in hand. Frank
pretended to be asleep. I got close to
his face.
“You lied about the smoked turkey and
then you tried to hide the evidence!”
“I pointed to the homestyle turkey, the
lady made a mistake.”
“But you saw the label.”
“Only after I got home and I knew you’d
be mad so I did what I had to.”
“Did you think I would be fooled? Did
you think you’d get away with it?”
“Okay, you caught me. Call the turkey
police.” He rolled over.
“Is that it? Are we done? Aren’t you
even going to apologize?”
“I apologize. Next time I’ll buy
homestyle turkey because making you
happy is my goal. It’s what I live for.
Can you scratch my back?”
Completely unreasonable.
