baked ham

The Packet asked readers for tales of cooking turkeys past, and you sent stories of freezers and microwaves, snow storms and fireballs. You survived the poultry explosions, and carved up a few memories for others who must battle the Butterball tomorrow.

So for those planning on a juicy bird as the centerpiece of the traditional Thanksgiving spread, before turning up the heat on the oven, heed these readers' warnings of harrowing holidays:

Now that's a hot bird

We have spent many years celebrating Thanksgiving on Hilton Head Island -- biking, beaching and bringing friends along. Our "turkey" was always shrimp. Dinner was fun, and then we were right back outside to play again. The refrigerator was not loaded with food that would be thrown out Sunday. It was always a perfect holiday.

Then we moved permanently to the island, and I decided to venture into turkey cooking. We have a Big Green Egg smoker and everything comes out perfectly done. I visited the Grillin store in Bluffton and got tips on how to smoke a turkey.

Thanksgiving morning the bird was prepared and the smoker brought to the correct temperature. I held court over the turkey as the family went off to play golf. When the timer declared the bird was done, I opened up the smoker and the entire turkey burst into flames. I was much too far from the kitchen but right beside the pool. Scooping water with my hands I quickly doused the turkey. Blackened and crispy and a lot of laughs, it has now become a traditional Thanksgiving tale.

This year we will try our luck frying a turkey.

Beth Howell

Hilton Head Island

A cold communication breakdown

It's not the turkey but the ham that sticks with me! I was about 15 years old -- busy begging my parents for more cell phone minutes and fewer chores. On Thanksgiving Day my mom granted me the latter. All I had to do was drive 30 minutes to Honey Baked Ham and pick up a ham big enough to feed our big crowd. I completed the assignment successfully. Once I got home, Mom told me to take it to the "'frigerator." I swore she said "freezer!"

About half an hour before (our) company arrived, Mom mentioned getting the ham out of the "'frigerator." I said, "It's in the freezer." Mom went nuts!

Scared to death, I snuck away and called Honey Baked Ham asking if they had any more hams I could pick up. (They) said no, but that a frozen ham is actually better once it's baked! (Mom still doesn't believe that.) The ham was delicious once thawed. We walked away from the experience with a good story to tell and a lesson in communication.

Needless to say, I don't pick up the ham anymore and now we refer to it as the "RE-FRIG-ER-A-TOR."

Holly Bounds-Jackson

Bluffton

Nuclear disaster

In 1980, my church in Taneytown, Md., requested help with turkey roasting, and I, having just purchased my first microwave, volunteered.

For months, friends had suggested trying one new thing daily to cook in this awe-inspiring machine (which was the size of today's smaller SUVs), and I thought I was ready to tackle Turkey Microwaving 101.

The Litton cooking guide tried to give simple instructions, especially regarding size of bird to be "nuked." When I picked up the bird at the church the day before the congregational Thanksgiving feast, I was a bit awed by its 23-pound bulk, but proceeded to prepare it for cooking.

It barely fit in the microwave, but I set the controls as directed. Weird noises shortly drew me to the kitchen: The bird looked ready to explode and was leaking juices from the pan, out the door and onto the counter. I cleaned up the mess and realized one turkey leg would have to be amputated for the microwaving to continue.

Finally, the timer went off and I retrieved one ugly turkey! I realized the interior of the microwave would never recover from the mess. I "finished" the bird in my conventional oven, but the meat was dry and tasteless. However, the congregation never complained as my slices were mingled with far more delicious ones at the large tables!

Barb Baumgardner

Hilton Head Island

Raw embarrassment

Stan and I were married in 1966, and this was to be our first Thanksgiving. We were having our families over for the holiday and wanted everything to be just perfect. However, neither of us had ever made a turkey.

I didn't want to ask my parents or in-laws for advice (this was to be "our" holiday) so I asked my neighbor how she made her turkey. That was my first mistake!

She had a foolproof recipe for turkey roasting. After all, she had done this for years and it always came out perfect. So began the fiasco!

My neighbor clearly stated, the first thing you did after washing and cleaning out the turkey was to put it into a brown paper bag. (Then) set the oven at 200 degrees and place the turkey in a large pan in the bag and cook overnight.

I spent the entire night getting up and down from bed checking on the oven.My husband was sure this couldn't possibly work -- after all, it wasn't the way his mother made a turkey. I certainly knew it wasn't the way my mother made a turkey, too.

Contrary to our concerns, Thanksgiving morning the turkey looked beautiful!The skin was brown and crisp -- just like a picture. We were so proud.

As my husband carried the turkey to the table, there were "ooh's" and "ah's," and then he began to carve the bird. It was raw inside! I burst into tears and my husband stared in disbelief.

Fortunately, the mothers came to the rescue. They grabbed the bird off of the table, cut it into pieces and put it into the oven to cook and be eaten later.

Our first Thanksgiving was an unplanned vegetarian meal!

Helen and Stan Xenakis

Hilton Head Island

Stuck with no bird

This story is titled, "Thanksgiving Tale of Snow." Our Thanksgiving tradition was always to celebrate it at our house on Long Island, N.Y., with my sister and her family traveling 45 minutes from New Jersey.

Every year my sister would be in charge of bringing some sort of a side dish or pies to add to the festivities. One year her son entered and won a turkey shoot, so he insisted that this year they would bring the turkey fully cooked. The plan was that soon after the turkey was cooked they would all pile into the car and head for Long Island, and by the time they arrived the turkey would be perfect for carving.

I was busy getting the table set and everything else ready for the meal when we got a phone call from my sister telling us they could not make the trip due to an unseasonable heavy snow storm. Panic struck: Where was I going to get a turkey and cook it at the 11th hour? Off to the grocery store I went to scrounge up a turkey. I had two choices, a turkey TV dinner or a turkey roll.

Let it be said I would have been better off with TV dinners. The turkey roll did not resemble turkey at all. My son said he didn't like eating anything that was gray, and to tell you the truth I couldn't blame him ... it was terrible. There was a happy ending to our tale. Although we didn't have a beautiful turkey on our Thanksgiving table, we did have a beautiful Thanksgiving turkey on our front lawn, albeit a snow turkey.
Cobb may be in the ham business but he profits greatly from Turkey Day.

Cobb, 54, is the owner and operator of a Heavenly Ham restaurant in the West Point Plaza at the busy intersection of Blue Mound and Barker roads in Brookfield.

He is the only African-American Heavenly Ham franchise operator in the state and the only minority franchisee in both the Heavenly Ham and Honey Baked Ham system in Wisconsin.

Cobb has operated his eight-employee Brookfield enterprise for the past 12 years. He used family savings and an investment from a business partner to raise the necessary $250,000 in capital to open his franchise.

"This is a lifelong dream. I always wanted to own my own business," said Cobb, who has a master's degree in business and management and formerly ran minority business development programs in Illinois and his hometown of Indianapolis. "This is a project that I have nurtured from its infancy and with the help of my employees."

I know Cobb personally, and he's someone I've watched beat tough odds.

For starters, he works grueling hours, leaving his house in Gurnee, Ill., as early as 5 a.m., and returning some nights as late as 8 p.m., to the chagrin of his wife and daughter.

He's survived a bout with colon cancer, financial losses as a result of Sept. 11, the economic downturn and fierce competition from grocery stores and Honey Baked stores. (Heavenly Ham was acquired by Honey Baked Ham in 2002.) What's more, he still mops the floors, takes out the trash and makes deliveries. We're talking about determination.