Scotty Scott’s “No Jive Turkey”
By Chef Scotty Scott:
It happened when I was about 9 or 10 years old. Every other year or so, my family would make the drive from Detroit to Atlanta to visit my mother’s sister for the holidays. It was always a festive time. Playing and having a blast with my Georgia cousins, which were the few that I had that were my age. Seeing my aunts and uncles and catching up with friends I’d made from visiting over summers past. Everything was all Gucci. Except for one little thing. My Thanksgiving nemesis; chitterlings. AKA chitlins.
Growing up, I was a somewhat sickly, fairly peculiar, and incredibly finicky child. Asthma, Forrest Gump braces on my legs, and allergic to everything; citrus fruit, chocolate, cheese, eggs (which I still don’t eat to this day) you name it, I couldn’t eat it. My diet consisted of the blandest, tamest, boxed crap you could think of. Now imagine the anxiety produced at even the thought of scarfing down a big ole fork full of pig entrails. And yet, somehow, the tradition became that of my family anxiously anticipating to see if this would be the year that Scotty would finally eat him some chitlins. Don’t get me wrong, there were always plenty of other delicious offerings at the tale. Mac and cheese, ham, yams, smoked or fried turkey, greens, rolls, desserts all the usual goodies. But there was also that one dish. The one that had me waking in horror as I lay in the back seat of our Cadillac as we drove down 75 heading to Georgia.
So here we are, Thanksgiving day, almost time to eat, and everyone is famished. Strangely enough, no breakfast, just everyone hangrily fasting until our dinner at 2:30 pm. The prayer has concluded, the sides are being passed around, and I’m sweating like Smokey in D-Bo’s pigeon coop as the trough of chitlins heads my way. As I made a face, held my breath, and dry heaved a little before politely declining, I was stopped by my uncle. “Scotty, this is the year you’re going to have some chitlins.” As I looked up at him, and then looked around at all the eyes at the table and the kiddie table focused on me I asked, “and what if I don’t.” My uncle replied, “then start washing the dishes, and no food until you’re finished.” “Really?” I said. “Yep,” he said. Without a second thought, I quickly shoved a freshly buttered roll into my pocket, walked into the kitchen, and began busting suds. After two or three plates I assumed surely someone would be the voice of reason and put a stop to this madness but nope, the silverware just kept clanging along on the plates as they laughed, and ate, and drank and slurped chitterlings and had a merry old time. Finally, after about 20 minutes someone with some sense finally came in and brought me back to the table. Of course, by this point, my plate was a sad, cold shell of the glorious Thanksgiving bounty I had amassed just 20 minutes earlier. The mac and cheese, yams, and collard greens juices had all comingled and were as one. The warm bath of gravy I’d given the turkey was now air chilled, as if you’d gotten an important phone call that took you away just as you were about to step into a freshly drawn bath. The only warm food I ate that meal was the roll I smuggled in my pocket before my dishwashing sentence.
I ate that cold ass plate of food that day. And not wanting to add a belt whooping to the menu I did it without a peep. But my Thanksgiving villain origin story was born that cold Georgia afternoon. I swore that somehow, some way, I would avenge that travesty of justice. Not only would I never let a single chitlin ever touch my lips but out of pure spite I swore off turkey as well. It being the cornerstone and poster child of this whole tradition.
As fate would have it, we never traveled to Atlanta for Thanksgiving again. A few Christmases, summers, and even an Easter or two. But for whatever reason, never for Thanksgiving. My uncle has since mellowed in his old age and probably doesn’t even know of the turkey trauma he has caused but I still stand firm in my conviction and my protest against Thanksgiving turkey.
Scotty Scott is an author, chef, caterer, and life-long abstainer of chitlins. But we do love his Thanksgiving pies.