I am a turkey baster

I am a turkey baster. No jokes, please, I’ve heard them all. I was manufactured sometime in the 1950s, don’t ask me to remember when. I’m a simple gizmo, no bells and whistles. Just a tube that comes to a small hole on one end and a bulbous balloon on the other. But let’s not forget my notches. I have notches indicating how much of the good stuff you’ve pulled into me, and how much you’ve let out. I’m the grandame of pipettes.

If there’s one thing to know about me, it’s that I don’t see a lot of action. Me and the ball of twine sat in Ida’s bottom drawer for 40 years, making an appearance only for Thanksgiving every year.

Ida was a master baster. I said no jokes. Her friend Bernadette would come over the day after thanksgiving for sandwiches and she couldn’t believe how moist the bird came out, even a day on. Ida had a firm grip, even when the arthritis made its debut.

But she’s gone now, and now I’m in a cardboard box. We’ve got some stars of the kitchen in here with me. The cow-shaped icecream scoop. The good ladle. Even a few French ovenware, which lent heft to the whole affair. “Am I flying first class or are you flying coach?” I said. No one said anything. We were never friends, not even work friends, but gallows humor unites us all, or so I thought. Well to hell with them. I’m old and I’m tired. My bulb is one good squeeze away from cracking. I’ve got a film on my insides that definitely wasn’t there when I was fresh out of Gimbels. And I’ve got some things to express. (That one was intentional. Let it not be said ol’ turkey baster doesn’t have a sense of humor).

“Ladle, how come you never said hi on Thanksgiving duty? You were on punch, I was on bird, but still, a simple hello is the customary greeting for a co-worker, is it not?”

“And you, LeCrusets. A clique if I’ve ever seen one.” 

“Pardonez-moi,” said the big gal.

“Pardonez my ass. Your enamel is almost gone sister. Think anyone’s going to make a gratin out of you?”

“It’s pronounced grat-tahn”

“You’re grat-tahn-ing on my last nerve. And you tongs, and you spatula. Yeah, I get it, you’re out there flipping and flopping flapjacks to fajitas. But couldn’t you have spared a thought for me, or for twine, or heck, the corn cob holder gang?”

“Yeah!” said one of the corn cob holders shaped like a mini corn cob.

“And you, icecream scoop.” I looked into those dumb cow eyes. “We didn’t really cross paths, but you seem ok. You’re good.”

We all lay there like the inanimate objects we were. “I guess what I’m saying is, see you at the landfill, you brutes.”

Then, the box opened. A face like Ida’s back before menopause smiled at us. “Aw, grandma’s kitchen stuff. Thanks for these, mom, all I’ve got is a can opener. Aw, the cow scoop.”

The thing about turkey basters, sometimes we just let it all out, and there’s no sucking it back in. “I wonder where she’ll put us,” I said, hoping to smooth things over.