It all began innocently enough. I’d sit down for Thanksgiving or Christmas dinner with my family, and after eating, I wouldn’t feel so great.
At first, I blamed the seasonal indulgence. Who could resist all those holiday treats? I began to reduce my portion sizes. Still, I left the table bloated and nauseous.
My siblings teased me, claiming I was making excuses to skip cleaning up after dinner. But a couple of hours later, I’d feel fine. I wouldn’t think about it again until the next holiday meal with turkey and all the trimmings.
I was innocent of the grievous charge of slacking off after dinner.
One year, I had dental surgery just before Christmas. I stuck to a soft diet. I wasn’t keen on mashed potatoes and turkey gravy. So I filled up on jello salad, mashed turnips (a personal favourite!), soup, and ice cream.
There wasn’t much stuffing that year, either. I made up for it with a second bowl of ice cream. I feasted! Yet, after dinner, I felt fine. No bloating. No discomfort.
That’s when I started connecting the dots.
The one thing missing from my plate that year was turkey. It hit me: turkey was the one food I ate only at holidays. For some reason, turkey and I didn’t get along.
I wasn’t upset. I’ve always preferred chicken. With ham often on the menu and plenty of cold cuts, cheeses, and snacks in the afternoon, I wasn’t missing out.
Years later, I spent Christmas at my sister’s place. Her home, built in the 1920s, had a closed-off kitchen. It was roomy enough for cooking, but with just one window, air circulation was poor.
About twenty minutes before dinner, my sister asked for help. I joined the crew in the kitchen to mash turnips (yes, again!), toss salad, and help with the gravy. She was pulling the turkey from the oven just as I stepped in. I walked through a cloud of hot turkey steam. Instantly, I felt sick.
Don’t worry, no EPIPen was needed, but…
I turned pale. My then brother-in-law guided me to the porch for some fresh air. After a few deep breaths and awkward jokes, I slipped back into the living room.
There were more jokes about me dodging kitchen duty, but I’d learned my lesson. From then on, I helped either before the turkey came out or after it was cleared away.
I later discovered that avoiding turkey and anything it came into contact with kept me feeling fine. As long as I didn’t breathe in turkey steam, all was well. I managed dinners at friends’ homes with no problem. I waited until the oven was cool before entering the kitchen.
I still overdid it sometimes, but only on desserts and sides.
Truth be told, I never cared much for the smell of turkey. I still don’t! Perhaps it goes back to preschool trauma when a mean tom turkey chased me across the barnyard and into the farmhouse kitchen of family friends.
I’ve told this story often, always with a laugh.
Over time, it took on a life of its own. Some friends now joke about inviting me over, worried a stray turkey whiff might do me in.
I’ve thought about writing a waiver: “I absolve you of all responsibility should I perish due to poultry exposure.”
That idea sparked another thought.
How often do stories from our lives take on a life of their own?
We share something painful, a memory, a regret, a wound. We move through it, even heal. But the person who heard it may freeze us in that place.
Later, we mention it again in passing. They react with concern. “I thought you were still dealing with that!” They’ve spent years avoiding the topic, careful not to stir pain we’ve long since released.
We forget that others grow and heal from their past just like we do.
“Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing!”
-Isaiah 43:18–19
Family gatherings prove it. Old stories resurface like they happened yesterday.
Siblings protest. Cousins cringe. “That was forever ago!” But the story is still told for the sake of a laugh.
Let’s offer each other grace. Let’s not lock people into their past.
We’ve grown. So have they.
“We who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion.”
– Philippians 1:6
And yes, by the grace of God, I was miraculously healed of all the food allergies I had back then.
But turkeys? In the form of poultry or a human? Still not a fan.
Until next time,
©2025 Katherine Walden
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