Thankful Thomas's Arc

Chapter 14 of 15

Thomas carried the frozen turkey into his kitchen and set it on the counter. He pressed his thumb against the bird. Hard as river ice. He checked the clock. Guests would arrive by midday, and a turkey this frozen would never roast in time. A whole bird thaws slow. He needed a faster way, and he needed it now. He filled a pot with warm water and lowered the turkey in. The water cooled fast. The ice at the center stayed solid. He drained it and tried again. Still too slow. One pot could not hold enough water to thaw a bird this big. He stood back and thought. He needed more water around more of the bird at once. Then he remembered the copper washtub in the shed. It was wide and deep, big enough to hold the whole turkey under warm water. He hauled it inside and wiped the dust from its rounded sides. He set it in the sink and filled it from the tap, running the water as hot as his hands could stand. He eased the turkey down. The warm bath climbed over the bird and covered it. But the center would still take hours. Thomas knew the cold lived deep inside, where the water could not reach. A smaller piece thaws faster than a whole one. He had to break the bird down. He went to the drawer and took out his kitchen hatchet, its blade scarred from years of use. He lifted the turkey onto the cutting board. He set the hatchet against a leg joint and brought it down. The frozen bird cracked. He worked slow and careful, splitting the turkey into pieces — legs, wings, breast, and back. Each cut opened the cold core to the warm water. He dropped the pieces into the washtub one by one. He changed the water three times. Each time he poured out the cool and filled in fresh hot. The pieces softened under his fingers. By the time the sun rose, the turkey gave way to his thumb. He pulled a leg from the tub. It bent at the joint. The meat was soft all the way through. The bird was ready to cook. Thomas leaned on the counter and breathed. He had his centerpiece, thawed in pieces and fit to roast. He looked at the clock. He had hours still before midday. The turkey was saved. Then a new worry rose. The pieces were small, carved for the pot, not the platter. A whole roasted bird crowns a table. His cut-up turkey would feed the crowd, but it would not look like a feast. His guests expected a grand centerpiece at the pavilion, and now he had a pile of parts. He needed a way to make the carved bird a worthy heart of the table.