Neighbors Gather for the Holiday Miracle of Turkey

Without exaggerating, walking up the property line that divides 17 and 19 Mulberry St. on Sunday felt as if you were stepping into an infantry campsite of some dystopian war.

Atent had been propped up, lawn chairs were scattered about, there were multiple fires going, and spraypainted propaganda signs dotted the property. Rock music filled the air from an unseen radio. The battle being fought was not over territory or any kind of civil dispute. It was over turkey.

In the summer, the properties were much more hushed—much more village-like. Scott and Erin Glaser and Ron and Chris Marson, who own and occupy 17 and 19 Mulberry St, respectively, were having a neighborly gathering.

The hour grew late and many turned in for the night, but Erin’s father, Scott Reding, who was visiting from Venice, Florida, and Ron stayed up to continue the conversation, which eventually—after a few coffees and brandy—found its way to turkey cooking. That conversation eventually turning into a lively argument.

“They each thought their turkey was the best,” said Scott G. “I said something like, ‘We’ve got to do something here, guys. We’ve got to cook turkey.’”

With the slogan of “peace, love, and turkey,” a contest came together between the two parties, which Scott G. is now credited with instigating, though Ron and Reding’s personalities helped to fuel the fire.

“I have been known to push the envelope a little too far and the same with [Reding]. We just fed on one another” said Ron.

Reding added, “We’re here to offer different types of turkey and different culinary options for our family, and hopefully explode our taste buds.”

Somewhere along the way—from the depths of the woods or simply out of thin air—another competitor emerged: A flannel and lumberjack hat-wearing Bill Leary, better known as “Turkey Bill,” threw his hat in the ring, assisted by his daughter Annemarie.

When Turkey Bill first introduced himself, he said he found the neighborhood competition by his natural turkey instincts and that he always carries a spare turkey in his van for such occasions.

“You can call it a spidey sense, but I call it a turkey sense,” said Turkey Bill. “I can just tell when something’s going on.”

(It was later that he revealed that he’s a longtime friend of Ron.)

Atotal of three birds were being cooked, each competitor bringing with them their own cooking style and backgrounds. Collectively, they represented more than 50 years of turkey-cooking experience.

The turkeys were labeled “A,” “B” and “C” and subjected to what amounted to a blind taste test. In addition to a “people’s choice” decided by the ballots of some 20 dinner guests, The Courier and its food columnist, Matt Buckley, weighed in to decide a winner.

Techniques started with a traditional oven roast with Ron’s turkey C, which he had prepared based on his grandmother’s original recipe. From there, cooking techniques went up in obscurity.

Turkey A was handled by Reding, who injected a cajun marinade into the meat and dunked it in a deep frier. Turkey B—Turkey Bill’s creation—was cooked inside of a tin garbage can that was set on hot coals. It’s a trick he learned in his Boy Scout training, but it unfortunately kept him and Annemarie stroking the coals with snow shovels for the entirety of the five and a half-hour cooking process.

“It’s OK,” Turkey Bill hollered across the yard to Reding, who was puffing a cigar and sipping a brew beside his bubbling deep fryer. “I don’t consider this work.”

Finally, around five o’clock, once the sun had set, the birds were all ready to consume. Lit by the flames of a background bonfire, dinner was announced via sports movie locker room speeches from each of the cooks and then a ceremonial blowing of a conch shell. And before the first bite would be taken, an impromptu singalong of “America, The Beautiful” broke out in the dining room.

While turkey A and B shined through with their unique flavors, it was the juiciness of turkey C that took the grand prize—a handmade turkey-themed baseball cap prepared and presented by the event’s conspirator and host, Scott G. But it didn’t really matter.

Throughout the day, something interesting happened. The competition became a side plot of the family gathering. Sure, Ron will have bragging rights for all of eternity—or at least until the next cook-off—but no one really cared who won.

Reding, who had softened considerably since the initial brandy and coffee porch conversation, took this the furthest. At one point, he even suggested putting Saran wrap around Chris’ ballot box.

“It’s about peace, love and cooperation,” said Reding, adjusting the competition’s original slogan “peace, love and turkey.” “There’s a very powerful story here. Here are three families and our stories run parallel in many ways and we’ve come together.”