Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe - Christmas Cheer - Christmas at the Turlingtons’ & Dave Cooks the Turkey

Episode Date: December 19, 2025

“Did you take the turkey out of the freezer?”For our last episode of the season – and our last before the Holidays – two Christmas classics! Plus, a beautiful, seasonal listener story from the Vinyl Cafe Story Exchange. For many of you, these Stuart McLean stories need no introduction, so grab a cup of egg nog, put your feet up and enjoy. Merry Christmas! Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

From the apostrophe podcast network. Hello, I'm Jess Milton, and this is backstage at the Vinyl Cafe. Welcome. It's our last episode before Christmas and our last episode of this season. So to celebrate the holidays, we've got two classic vinyl cafe stories for you today. I know lots of you have these two stories on rotation at this time of year. I know that because you've told me. We've had so many messages telling us that you listen to them while you do your festive baking or while you wrap presents or do that long drive to go visit family.

That makes me so happy. So, as Stuart used to say, I'm going to be the full service host today. We've bundled the two of them up for you for our last episode of the year, a neat little Christmas package tied up with a bow. In our first story, choir boy candles. In our second, turkey. Need I say more? We got a festive story exchange for you, too, about a special Christmas visitor. But let's start with those candles, shall we?

This is Christmas at the Turlington's. No one in God's great creation gives themselves over to Christmas more than Morley's neighbor, Mary Turlington. to the season and the spirit behind it to be sure, but not only to the season and the spirit to the whole nine yards, to all the noise that surrounds Christmas. I've chosen my Christmas color, Mary announced triumphantly to her husband Bert one night in July.

I'm doing cinnamon this year. Notice it's not we, not we're doing cinnamon. For Mary Turlington, Christmas is a solo. sport. We'll need a copper tree, she said to Bird a few days later, and catch that shift. An important distinction, Mary writes the score, but Mary expects her husband, Bert, to be in the band. By right of marriage, Bert is enlisted, inducted, and suited up. Mary, who's taken up with and over by Christmas every year, became particularly focused on this Christmas some six weeks ago. Until, Well, six weeks ago, Mary believed that her mother and her sister and her sister's husband and their four children and her brother and his kids were all coming to her house for Christmas.

But one by one, her family bailed. Her brother got a new job and couldn't afford the time away. Her sister's husband got sick. Her mother called and said, I don't know, I don't know. If no one else is coming, maybe I should stay at home. anyone else might have been disappointed. Anyone else so caught up in Christmas preparations might have fallen apart. What's the point they might have asked? I worked so darn hard, no one cares. Mary didn't fall apart. Mary dug deeper.

Means we can do things my way for a change, she said to Bert. Apparently Mary, who had been all about control and also been all about compromise. I thought I was going to have to do a turkey again this year, said Mary. Emma is so conservative on the question of turkey. On the question of turkey at Christmas, Bert felt pretty conservative himself. But he was conservative enough not to admit it. Instead of being unsettled that her plans were unraveling, Mary was becoming unleashed.

She was Mary unshackled. What do you think of Hannah, she said to Bert one night? Who, said Bert? If we henned your hair, said Mary. Think of how nice you'd go with a copper tree. Mary had apparently shifted into some previously undiscovered Christmas gear. And Bert, who had always been delighted by his wife's Christmas cheer, was beginning to feel something that was not delight.

It was a bigger feeling than delight. A whirring sort of feeling. Fear. Bert was fearful that Mary's Christmas was about to overtake him. He felt like the Cadillac in that song about the Little Nash Rambler. Beep, beep, said Bert. What, said Mary? Oh, nothing, said Bert.

As Christmas got closer, Mary set out their collection of Christmas candles. A parade, a little paraffin men and women, and chipped red and yellow choir robes. I know they're cheesy, she said. but I love these things more than anything. The candles had been in Mary's family since before she was born. Mary's parents had bought the choir master and his wife on their very first Christmas together, a man and a woman singing their little paraffin hearts out.

Mary's mother had added to the candle collection each time she had a child. And when her children married, she added wax figures for each husband and wife. And then for each of the grandchildren. After 50 Christmases, there were now 23 candles that lived 11 months of the year wrapped in tissue at the bottom of a shoebox and spent the holiday season marching along the mantle, the two original candles at the head of the paraffin parade. Only one candle had ever been lit when Mary's sister's husband left her for his aerobics instructor. Mary's mother burned his candle in the front window on the front window on the same.

on Halloween. She scraped what remained of the candle off the window frame, wrapped the little wax puddle in beautiful gold foil, and mailed it to the ex-husband the following Christmas. Ever since then, the candles have assumed iconic status in the family. Every Christmas, Mary's mother picks up her candle and says, maybe when I die you could light mine and put it on my coffin. We'll never light them, said Mary. Never, ever. Mary found a local welder to make her copper tree. He came to the house and measured their living room door early in December. I won't be able to use copper.

He said, I'm going to use steel. But it'll be oxidized steel, so it'll be copper-colored. It'll look sort of, sort of... He was searching for the right word. Dead, said Bert. That was the night when Mary told Bert she'd settled on scallops for Christmas dinner. I'm going to poach them in saffron, she said. So they'll look nice with a tree. And that was the moment that galvanized Bert. That was the moment Bert decided the time for action had come.

Bert was standing in his driveway when lightning struck, well, not literally lightning, but close to it. There was a flash and a loud clap, and Bert jumped back, his hands flying up to protect his head. And then as he stood there, a giant set of fiberglass ringed. reindeer antlers fell out of the sky and planted themselves in the front lawn right beside him. Bert stared at the vibrating antlers thinking how ironic it would have been given his current situation to have been taken out by a giant Christmas decoration. And then he looked up and he spotted his neighbor, Dave, running down the sidewalk. Dave with his face covered and soot and his eyebrows singed.

you'll never believe what just happened said Dave and it was suddenly obvious to Bert what had to happen Mary needed to be distracted or Christmas as Bert knew and loved it was going to be lost and if Mary's family weren't going to show up and do the job Bert needed someone else to take up the slack someone who rubbed up against his wife a bit the way her sister did someone to preoccupy her hey said Bert

Dave. How are you? And that is why two weeks later, two o'clock on Christmas afternoon, Morley looked at her husband across the mess of their living room and said, if we're going to get to the Turlington's on time, we better start getting ready right now. Dave was standing by the couch in his pajamas, knee-deep in wrapping paper. He was holding Morley's present. It looked like it had been wrapped by a small animal with no opposable thumbs. This is for you, he said, holding the package out. And he kicked his way across the room towards Morley as if it was an October afternoon and he was kicking his way through a leaf-strewn park.

I love you, he said. Sam, 12 years old and crawling through the paper toward the back of the tree like a caver, stopped dead and looked over his shoulders at his parents. And he said, will you two please stop? talking like that in front of me? It's inappropriate. At two o'clock in the afternoon at Dave's house, Christmas was still in full swing. Two doors down the street, however, at Christmas Central, two doors down the street at the Turlington's house, there was very little evidence that Christmas had even happened. The Turlington twins had already taken their presents back to their rooms,

and they had put things away in their drawers and cupboards. And while, Sam dove under another pile of papers if he were snorkeling, the Turlington twins dressed in their matching Christmas sweaters were sitting at the dining room table writing out their thank you cards. 21-year-old Adam Turlington was sitting on the sofa, carefully folding, wrapping, wrapping paper, and sorting it into two neatly labeled boxes. One marked recycle, the other marked reuse.

Mary Turlington was vacuuming in a pair of gold kitten heel shoes. And soon, soon these two different cultures were going to be brought under the same roof. Dave and Morley and Sam and Stephanie were heading up the Turlington's walk. And now, as they stood on the Turlington stoop,

Morley turned and she took Dave's arm at the elbow, and she said, Best behavior. Very best, said Dave, nodding earnestly. And he met it. They were both thinking of other dinners at the Turlington's, the competitive strain, the abrasive political discussions. Dave took a deep breath, very best, he said again.

And then Dave reached out, and he rang the Turlington's bell. Mary opened the door and stared at Dave, and there was an uncomfortable beat before anyone said anything. Mary in a long black evening gown, gold earrings, her hair a strangely artificial shade of orange, her hair sprayed and pulled tightly back into a bun, Mary standing there like she was expecting the queen and finding a man from the stables instead. Mary in her formal dress and Dave in his cords and a flannel shirt. If you could have seen inside of them, you could have watched both of their hearts sinking.

both of them thinking, how did I get myself into this? And before either of them had time for a second thought, Dave saw Mary Turlington's Christmas tree for the first time. It had a steel trunk and steel branches and steel needles and steel decorations. And Dave, who had been expecting greenery when he glanced into the living room, blinked. To Dave, the tree looked. rusty. Tree looked sharp, like some kind of giant, corroded medieval weapon, or a bombed-out electrical tower left rotting in the fields of some war-torn country. Those are the thoughts that were

tumbling through Dave's mind as he stood in the hall with his mouth hanging open. And the very first words that came out of his mouth were not, Happy Christmas, Mary, or Mary. you look wonderful. The first words out of Day's mouth were, my God, what happened to your tree? Morley saw Mary's jaw twitch and thought she heard a faraway,

whoosh. It was the sound of an evening of merriment being sucked out of the house. Dave glanced helplessly at Morley. I'm trying his expression seemed to say. Morley stared back. Try harder. And then Bert was ushering everyone into the living room, posing them around the rusting tree, chatting with forced cheeriness. He pulled out his new digital camera. Everyone's

smile, said Bert, hopefully. And Dave did try harder. In an effort to show Mary that he appreciated her hospitality, Dave sunk his hand into a bowl, a gourmet snack mix that was on the hall table. As soon as he popped the stuff into his mouth, he knew he had a problem. He glanced down at the bowl. There were dried cranberries in there. And what looked like bits of cinnamon stick. But what he thought were tiny potato chips were now looking suspiciously like the stuff you might use at the bottom of a hamster gauge. Dave's teeth grinded away.

At what he now realized were cedar shavings. and it dawned on him that he was eating Mary's Christmas popery. When he looked up to see if anyone had noticed, he saw Mary staring at him from the other side of the living room. So instead of spitting into his hand, which is what he wanted to do, Dave smiled gamely and swallowed. Bert handed Morley a glass of wine and reached for his camera. Hold it there, Dave, said Bert.

The more Dave tried, the worst things got. Just don't touch anything, whispered Morley. Taking a clove-studded orange from Dave's hand. Everyone was in the kitchen and everyone was busy. Morley was tossing the salad. Burt was taking pictures. Mary was dusting the turkey with cinnamon. What can I do? whispered Dave to Morley.

Just be helpful, said Morley. Just look around for something that needs doing and just do it, don't ask. Dave couldn't see anything that needed doing in the kitchen. So he went in the dining room. There were flower petals and little pieces of bronze colored glitter all over the dining room table. Dave went to the hall closet and got the hand vac and hoovered them up. Then he picked up a pack of matches from the buffet and headed toward the mantle. In the heads of the little wax choir, a few of the oldest figures burned remarkably fast. The little wax puddle at the top of their heads sunk into their skulls.

So the flame of the candles shone through their eyes. It gave them a slightly demonic look. It would be more dramatic, thought Dave, if he dimmed the room lights. That way, the candles would be the first thing you saw when you came into the room. They were certainly the first thing that Mary saw when she came into the room. she was carrying a salmon appetizer. They managed to pick most of the salmon off the floor before the Turlington's dog got too much.

Dave scooped up the biggest piece and wiped it off on a napkin. Five second rule, he said, grinning. There, said Bert, reaching for his camera. Somehow or other, they managed to get through the meal. After the candles and the salmon fiasco, Mary had headed back into the kitchen like an army general determined to overcome defeat in the field. Bert kept jumping up and blinding everyone with a flash of his camera

at regular intervals and morally hung on to her wine glass like a drowning woman clutching a life preserver. In fact, in fact, by the time the turkey was finished, things seemed to have settled down so nicely the day felt it might just be safe to help out again. He headed into the kitchen, to see about the plum pudding. You'll need more than that, said Dave,

as he watched Mary dose the pudding with a shot glass of liquor. Now, whether or not she did need more as a moot point. Point is, if Mary had added just a little more, everything might have been all right. But she didn't. Mary wasn't about to let Dave tell her how things should be done in her kitchen. So instead of adding just a little more brandy, Mary looked at Dave Isily and she said, that'll be plenty.

And Dave moved by only the best of intentions. Dave, not wanting anything more to go wrong, waited until Mary wasn't looking and gave the pudding an extra shot of brandy anyway. And Mary, not wanting to be proved wrong about how much brandy you needed to light a plum pudding, waited until Dave wasn't looking, and gave it two extra shots herself.

So the pudding was well and truly soaked when Mary carried it to the table and struck a match. There was a whoosh and a bright blue flash and the pudding went up like a Roman candle. A number of things caught fire. Most spectacularly, the cinnamon-colored silk ribbon that Mary had wrapped around the bun at the top of her head.

The ribbon acted like a wick. And in an instant, blue flames were shooting out of Mary's heavily hair-sprayed hair. She stood stock still there by the table, holding the match in front of her, looking like the statue of liberty on fire. Her jumped for his camera. Unfortunately, it was Dave who put her out. He used a picture of eggnog. It was hours later. after Mary's hair had been put out

and the dining room generally hosed down and the twins in bed and Dave and Morley safe at home that Mary's sister Emma phoned. Mary took the portable phone into the den while Bert finished tiding in the kitchen. Emmy sent her love, said Mary when she returned. Her eyes were red. She'd obviously been crying.

I guess I miss her. she said. I hadn't thought of her all day. I hadn't missed her at all, but you know, I've never had a Christmas without her. Did you know that? Did you tell her about the candles, said Bert? And the pudding, said Mary, wiping her eyes on the sleeve of her plaid shirt. She reminded me of the Christmas, the dog ate the turkey, and the time Adam knocked the tree over. Remember that? family and friends said Bert family and friends they sure mess up our lives

they sure do said Mary but she was smiling now they sure do thank you very much that was Christmas at the Turlington's I love that story

when people ask me what my favorite David Morley story is I struggle it's like choosing your favorite child but I, that's probably it. And you may have heard me say this before on the pod. It might be my favorite story because it contains what I think is one of Stewart's best lines ever. You heard that line right near the end of the story delivered by good old Bert Turlington.

Family and friends, they sure mess up our lives. They sure do. But the magic is in the mess. especially at this time of year. We're going to take a short break now, but we'll be back in a couple of minutes with another story. And if you can find magic in the mess, you're going to like this one.

It's nothing but mess. Welcome back. Time for a story exchange now. This is a story by the late William Lamar Palmer of Brandon Manitoba. It was sent in by his son, Bruce Palmer. In 1955, I was a Mountie in charge of an RCMP detachment in the interlake area of Manitoba. We received heavy snow in November and December that year, and travel in some of the rural areas was difficult.

But on December the 24th, true to a commitment we had made, we went around the area delivering gifts, clothing we had gathered, wooden toys we had made, and festive food and turkeys. Most of the homes were easily reached by car, but there was one that wasn't. It was a family living on a little used bush road about four miles from town, a single mother and four children, ranging in ages from one to eight. They had no telephone. I had one of the junior constables with me. We drove to the closest store to inquire about the exact location of the home.

The storekeeper drew a map for us and said we'd be able to drive about three miles north, but that the family lived on a side road that hadn't been plowed, and we would have to walk from there. He was concerned because he hadn't heard anything from them for two weeks. He gave us some candy and nuts to add to our gifts. It was nearly 7 o'clock. It was dark and it was cold, but there was a bit of a moon. We managed the three miles without difficulty,

but at the side road our hearts sank. The road was filled with snow. There wasn't even a trail. We started out. The snow was over our knees in most places, and it was hard going. We could scarcely see, and we were afraid we might miss the house. We considered turning back. I guess the thoughts of my own children kept me going.

Finally, we saw a light through the trees and a short time later, a small cabin. We had found them. exhausted we struggled through a gate in the wire fence and stumbled our way up to the house inside we could hear children's voices we knocked there was complete silence for a few moments and then the door slowly opened it must have been a shock for them to see two burly policemen dressed in buffalo coats. They looked apprehensive. But when they saw our sleigh and box of presence, their expressions changed to amazement and joy. One little voice cried, See, Mama? Santa Claus did come. The mother burst into tears. And then she threw her arms

around us and kissed us soundly. You are an answer to our prayers. she sat. Through her tears, she told us that she had explained to her children that Santa would not be able to find them this year with all the snow, and that there wouldn't be any presents or Christmas dinner. But the children wouldn't believe her. The oldest boy said, we could always pray, and he insisted they all kneel down together. The mother agreed, but she dreaded the disappointment they would suffer when their prayers weren't answered. We'd hardly said, amen, when you knocked on the door, she told us. With joy in our hearts, we lay out the big turkey and other food and gifts, and then we were smothered with more hugs and kisses from the four little kids. Everyone shed tears

of joy. The trip from the car to the house had been a struggle, step of the way, but on the return journey, we were so overwhelmed by the Christmas spirit, we floated back to our vehicle. Christmas the next day with my wife and three little boys was made even more joyful by the memory of those four little faces in that humble cottage way out in the bush. By that and by their faith in the spirit of Christmas. That was Stuart McLean, reading a story sent in by Vinyl Cafe listener, Bruce Palmer. Time for our second story now. This one, this one needs no introduction.

From the very first vinyl cafe Christmas concert ever, this is Dave Cook's The Turkey. Last year when Carl Loughbier bought his wife, Gerta, Martha Stewart's complete Christmas planner, He did not understand what it was he was doing. On Christmas Eve, Carl found himself staring at a bag full of stuff that he couldn't remember buying. He wondered if he'd maybe picked up someone else's bag by mistake. And then he found a receipt with his signature on it. Why would he have paid $23 for a slab of metal to defrost meat when they already owned a microwave oven that would do it in half the time? Who could he possibly have been thinking of when he would be.

bought the AB machine. Although he did remember buying Martha Stewart's complete Christmas planner. It was the picture of Martha Stewart on the cover that had drawn him to the book. A picture of Martha striding across her front lawn with a wreath made of chili peppers

tucked under her arm. Carl had never heard of Martha Stewart, but she looked like she was in a hurry and that made him think of GERDA. So he bought the book, never imagining that it was something that his wife had been waiting for. all her life. Carl was as surprised as anyone in the neighborhood last May when Gerta began the

neighborhood Christmas group, although not perhaps as surprised as Dave was when his wife Morley joined it. It's not about Christmas, Dave Morley said. It's about getting together. The members of Gerda's group, all women got together every second Tuesday night at a different house each time. They drank tea or beer and the host baked something special and they worked on stuff usually until about 11. But that's not the point, said Morley. The point is getting together. It's about neighborhood, not about what we're actually doing, but there was no denying that they were doing stuff while I got together. It was May and they were doing Christmas stuff. It's wrapping paper, said Morley. You're making paper, said Dave. We're decorating paper, said Morley. This is hand-painted paper. Do you know how much

this would cost? That was July. In August, they took oak leaves and dipped them into gold paint and hung them in bunches from the kitchen ceiling. And then there was the stenciling weekend. The weekend Dave thought if he stood still too long, Morley would stencil him. In September, when no one could find an eraser anywhere in the house, Morley came home and she said, that's because I took them all with me. We're making rubber stamps. You're making rubber stamps, said Dave. Out of erasers, said Morley. People don't even buy rubber. stamps anymore, said Dave. There were oranges drying

on the clothes rack in the basement. There were blocks of wax for candles stacked on the ping pong table. And then one day, Morley said, do you know there's only 67 shopping days until Christmas?

Now, Dave did not know this. Had not, in fact, completely unpacked from last summer's vacation. And without thinking, he said, what are you talking? talking about. And Morley said, if we wanted to get all our shopping done by the week before Christmas, we only have she shut her eyes 62 days left. Now Dave and Morley usually start their

Christmas shopping the week before Christmas, and suddenly there they were with only 67 shopping days left, standing in their bedroom, staring at each other, incomprehension hanging in the air between them. It hung there for a good 10 seconds. And then Dave said, something he had been careful not to say for weeks. He said, I thought this thing wasn't about Christmas, which he immediately regretted saying. Because Morley said, don't make fun of me, Dave. And she left the room.

And then she came back like a locomotive. Uh-oh, thought Dave. What, said Morley? I didn't say that, said Dave. You said, uh-oh, said Morley. I thought, uh-oh, said Dave. I didn't say, uh-oh. Thinking, uh-oh, isn't like saying, oh, they don't send you to jail for thinking you want to strangle someone.

What, said Morley? She slept downstairs that night. And she didn't say a word when Dave came down and tried to talk her out of it. Didn't say a word the next morning until Sam and Stephanie had left for school. And then she said, do you know what my life is like, Dave? Dave suspected correctly that she wasn't looking for an answer. My life is a train, she said. I'm a train dragging everyone from one place to another to school and to dance class and to now it's time to get up and now it's time to go to bed.

I'm a train full of people who complain when they have to go to bed and fight you when they have to get out of one. That's my job because I'm not only the train, I'm the porter and the conductor and the cook and the engineer and the maintenance man and I print the tickets and stack the luggage and clean the dishes and if they still had cabooses, I'd be in the caboose so I could pick up everything after the train went by. Now Dave, Dave didn't want to ask where the train was heading. He had the sinking feeling. It was one of those Civil War trains. And somewhere up ahead, someone had pulled up a section of the track. You know where the train is heading? said Morley. Yep, thought Dave, we're going off the tracks.

Any moment now. What, said Marley? I said, no, Dave said. I said, I don't know where the train's going. Morley lent forward over the table. It starts at a town called First Day at School, Dave, and it goes to a village called Halloween, and then through the township of Class Project, and down the spur line called your sister is visiting,

and you know what's at the end of the track? You know where my train's heading? Dave looked at her kind of nervously. He didn't want to get the answer wrong. He would have been happy to say where the train was going if he knew we could get it right. Was his wife going to leave him? Maybe the train was going to D-I-V-O-R-C-E.

Not at Christmas, he moaned. Exactly, said Morley. To the last stop on the line, Christmas dinner, and this is supposed to be something I look forward to, Dave. This is supposed to be a vacation. Christmas dinner, said Dave, kind of tentatively. It seemed a reasonably safe thing to say at the moment. And Morley nodded,

and feeling encouraged Dave, with a turkey and everything. But Morley wasn't listening to him, she said, and when we finally get through that week between Christmas and New Year, you know what they do with the train? They back it up during the night

when I'm asleep so they can run it through all the stations one more time. And you know who you are, Dave? You're the guy in the bar car, pushing the button, asking for another drink. By the way, Morley said that. Dave could tell that she still loved him. she didn't for instance say that he had to get off the train

or for that matter even out of the bar car but he did realize if he was going to stay aboard he was going to have to join the crew so the next weekend he said why don't I do some of the Christmas shopping why don't you give me a list and I'll go and get some of the things for the Cape Breton cousins now Dave had never gone Christmas shopping in September before but when he came back he said that was okay And Morley said, I'm sorry.

It's just that I liked Christmas so much. I used to like Christmas so much. And I was thinking, if I got everything done beforehand, maybe I could enjoy it again. I'm trying to make it fun again. I'm trying to get control of it. That's what all this is about. And Dave said, well, what else can I do?

And Morley looked at him, and she said, on Christmas Day, Dave, after we've opened the presents, I want to take the kids to work at the food bank. And I want you to look after the turkey. I can do that, said Dave. Dave didn't understand until Christmas Eve when the presents were finally wrapped and under the tree and he and Morley were snuggled in bed

and he was feeling warm and safe there beside his wife and he nudged her feet with his feet and she said, did you take the turkey out of the freezer? And he went downstairs and couldn't find a turkey in the freezer in either freezer and was about to call out where's the turkey anyway

but stopped abruptly when the truth landed on him like an anvil and he understood that looking after the turkey, something he had promised to do meant buying it as well as putting it in the other. He decided he'd wait downstairs for a while. And when he went back up, Morley was asleep and he thought I could wake her. Instead, he lay in bed and imagined in perfect detail the chronology of the Christmas Day waiting for him. imagined everything from the first morning squealed

and the moment his family left to work at the food bank and then that moment when they came home with his mother-in-law who they would have picked up, all of them expecting turkey, saw the look on his wife's face as she sat at her table with the homemade crackers and the gilded oak leaves as he carried a bowl of spaghetti across the kitchen. At 2 a.m., he was still awake. But at least he had a plan.

He would wait until they left for the food bank, then he'd take off and go to some deserted Newfoundland outport and live under an assumed name. And at Sam's graduation, his friends would say, why isn't your father here? And Sam would say, one Christmas, he forgot to buy the turkey, so he had to leave. Then at three, after rolling around for an hour,

Dave got out of bed, dressed, and went looking for a 24-hour grocery store. It was either that or wait for the food bank to open. And though he couldn't think of anyone in the city who, more in need of a turkey than he was, the idea that his family might spot him in line made that unthinkable. At 4 a.m. in the morning, on Christmas morning, Dave found an open store and bought the last turkey there, 12 pounds,

frozen as tight as a cannonball. Grade B. He was home by 5 a.m. and by 6.30 had the turkey more or less thawed. He used an electric blanket and the hair dryer. and a bottle of scotch on himself. As the turkey defrosted, it became clear that the gray B part was the cosmetic part. The skin on the right drumstick was ripped. To Dave, it looked as if the turkey had made a break from the slaughterhouse

and dragged itself a block or two before it was recaptured and beaten to death. His bird looked like it had died in a knife fight. Dave poured another scotch and began to refer to the turkey as butch. If that had been the worst thing about the bird that it was cosmetically challenged, Dave would have been happy, would have considered himself blessed, would have been able to look forward to this Christmas with equanimity,

might eventually have been able to laugh it off. The worst thing came later, after lunch, after Morley and the kids left for the food bank. Before they left, Morley dropped pine oil on some of the living room lamps. When the lamps heat the oil up, she said the house will smell like a forest. Then she said, Mother's coming. I'm trusting you with this, Dave. You have to have the turkey in the oven.

Dave finished her sentence for her. He said, by 1.30, don't worry. I know what I'm doing. The worst thing began when Dave tried to turn on the oven. Morley had never had cause to explain to him about the automatic timer. And Dave had never had cause to ask about it. The oven had been set the day before to go on at 5.30. Morley had been baking a squash casserole for Christmas dinner

because she always does the vegetables the day before. And now, until the oven timer was unset, nothing anybody, least of all Dave, did, was going to turn it on. At 3.30 in the afternoon, Dave retrieved the bottle of scotch from the basement and poured himself a drink. He knew he was in trouble.

He had to find an oven that could cook the bird and cook it fast. But every oven he could think of had a turkey inside it already. Now, for 10 years, Dave was a technical director to some of the craziest acts on the rock and roll circuit, and he wasn't going to fall to pieces over a raw turkey. Inventors are often unable to explain where they get their best ideas from, and Dave is not too sure where he got his. Maybe he spent too many years in too many hotel rooms at 4 o'clock in the afternoon.

He topped up the Scotch, and he phoned the Park Plaza Hotel, and he was given the front desk, and he said, do you cook special menus for people with special dietary needs? We're a first-class hotel in a world-class city, sir. We can look after any dietary needs. And Dave said, if somebody brings their own food because it's on a special diet, would you cook it for them? Of course, sir.

Dave looked at the turkey, lying on the counter like a naked baby. Come on, butch, he said, we're going out. Morley had the car. Dave called a taxi. He stuffed the bottle of scotch in his pocket on the waltz. way out the door. The park plaza, he said, it's an emergency. He took a slug from the bottle in the back of the cab. The man at the front desk of the hotel asked if Dave needed help with his suitcases. No suitcases, said Dave, then turned breezily to the man behind him in line,

and patted the turkey, which he had dropped on the counter and was spilling out of its plastic bag and said, only slightly slurred, just checking in for the afternoon with my check. The clerk winced and Dave turned, wobbled, and peered at the man in line behind him. He was looking for approval. Instead of approval, he found his neighbor, Jim Schofield, Sandy. Standing beside an elderly woman who Dave assumed must be Jim's visiting mother. And Jim didn't say anything. Tried, in fact, to look away, but he was too late, and their eyes met.

And Dave straightened himself out and said, Turkey and the kids are at the food bank. I just brought Morley here so they could cook her up for me. Oh, said Jim, that explains everything. I mean the turkey said Dave I bring it here every year I'm alone Dave held his arms out as if he wanted Jim to frisk him and the man at the desk said excuse me sir

and handed Dave his key and Dave smiled at the man behind the counter at Jim at Jim's mother and walked toward the elevator one careful foot in front of the other and when he got there he heard Jim calling him and Dave turned and Jim said you forgot your chick pointing to the turkey on the counter. The man on the phone from room service said,

but we have turkey on the menu, sir. And Dave said, this is a special turkey. I was hoping you could cook my turkey. The man from room service told Dave the manager would call. Dave looked at his watch. And when the manager called, Dave knew this was his last and only chance. This man was going to either agree to cook his turkey or he might just as well book the ticket to Newfoundland.

excuse me sir said the manager I said I need to eat this particular turkey said Dave that particular turkey sir said the manager do you know said Dave what they put in birds today no sir said the manager he said it like it was a question they feed them now Dave had no idea what they fed them he wasn't sure what he was going to go with this just that he had to keep talking

they feed them chemicals he said and antibiotics and steroids and lard to make them juicier. I'm allergic to that stuff. If I eat any of that stuff, I'll have a heart attack or at least a seizure in the lobby of your hotel. Do you want that to happen? The man on the phone didn't say anything, so Dave kept going. I have my own turkey here. I raised this turkey myself. I butchered it myself. I butchered it this morning. The only thing this thing has eaten, Dave looked frantically around the room. What did he feed the turkey? Tofu, he said triumphantly. Tofu, sir, said the manager. And yogurt, said Dave. It was all or nothing.

The bellboy took the turkey and Dave gave him $20 and said, you have those big convection ovens. He said, I've got to have it back before 5.30. All he said was, you must be very hungry, sir. Dave collapsed onto the bed, didn't move for an hour and a half, which was when the phone rang, it was the manager. He said the turkey was in the oven.

Then he said, you raised that bird yourself? It was a question. Dave said yes. It was a pause. The manager said, The chef says the turkey looks like it was abused. Dave said, Ask the chef if he's ever killed a turkey.

Tell him what was a fighter. Tell him to stitch it up. The bellboy wheeled the turkey into Dave's room a quarter to six. They had it on a dolly covered with a silver dome. Dave removed the dome and gasped. It didn't look like any bird he could have cooked. There were white paper arm bands on both drumsticks

and a glazed partridge, made of red peppers on the breast. He looked at his watch and ripped the paper armbands off, and he scooped the red pepper partridge into his mouth, and then he realized the bellboy was watching him and saw the security guard standing on the corridor. The security guard was holding a carving knife. They obviously weren't about to trust Dave with a weapon.

Would you like us to carve it, sir? Just get me a taxi, said Dave. What, said the guard? I can't eat this here, said Dave. I have to eat it. couldn't imagine where he had to eat it. Outside, he said. I have to eat it outside. He took out another $20 bill and he gave it to the bellboy

and he said, I'm going downstairs to check out. You bring the bird and get the taxi. And he walked by the security guard without looking at him and said, careful with that knife. And he got home at 6 o'clock and he put Butch on the table. The family was due back any minute and he poured himself a drink and he sat down in the living room. and the house looked beautiful

and smelled beautiful. It's like a pine forest. My forest, said Dave. And then he said, uh-oh, and jumped up and got a ladle of turkey gravy and ran around the house smearing it on the light bulbs.

You do what you've got to do. There he thought. And he went outside and he stood on the stoop and he counted to 50 and he went back in and breathed in and the house smelled just like Christmas. And he poured up. himself another scotch. And he looked out the window and he saw Morley coming up the walk with Jim Schofield and his mother. We met them outside and invited them in for a drink. I hope

that's okay. Of course, said Dave, I'll go get the drinks. And he said Morley, could you come here a moment please? There's something I have to tell you. That was Dave Cooks the Turkey. That story was recorded at the Glenn Gould Studio back in 1996. All right, that's it for today. And that's it for season six of Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe. We're going to take a couple weeks off over the holidays. I hope you do too. But we'll be back in January with a whole new season of the podcast.

And I hope you'll be back to listen. Until then, I want to thank all the people who make this show possible, including the entire team at the apostrophe podcast network. Terry and Debbie and Callie and Sydney O'Reilly, Allison Pinch's and Jeff Devine. We feel so honored to work with such a talented, lovely bunch. Thank you. And as always, I want to thank my good friend, Danny Michelle, for all the wonderful music he has created specifically for this podcast. Thank you for always being there for me and for picking up the phone every time I call. I want to thank my two favorite turkeys, Greg DeClut and Louise Curtis. They do so

much all year round to make this podcast. I'm not exaggerating when I say, without Greg and Louise, this podcast wouldn't exist. I have two little kids and a full-time job, and I also have a delusional belief that anything is possible. And the truth is, this podcast is only possible because of them. So thank you. It wouldn't be possible without them. I'm so grateful for their work and especially for their friendship. And thanks to you, too, all of you for listening. I hope you can gather with the people you love and find light at this dark time of year.

We'll catch up with you in the new year. Until then, happy holidays and so long for now.