COOKING : What a Turkey! : The perfect Thanksgiving meal is 10% inspiration and 90% preparation.

The scent of freshly roasted turkey wafts through the room, and you take a seat at the dinner table. You wipe perspiration from your brow and appraise the company: your mate and several of your friends, hungry and restless.

It’s a few days before Thanksgiving, but the group has been waiting impatiently for this moment, and you’ve spent the better part of an afternoon preparing for it. You were dared to prepare this holiday turkey--your first--and now here it lies on the not-so-fine china.

The bird is cooked to a juicy golden brown, just like mom’s has always been, and it is flanked by sweet yams and canned cranberry sauce. Simple, but serviceable.

Your friend, the industrial engineer, has the carving honors and handles them smoothly while you lean back and catch your breath. The fireplace crackles, conversation trips along and soft music lilts in the background. You raise a cool glass of Chardonnay.

Soon you’ll know whether you’re a success or the accidental poisoner of your loved ones. Either way, you’ve had an eye-opening journey from point A--facing the idea of preparing a turkey for the first time--to point B--presenting said turkey, cooked and stuffed, for consumption.

On the big morning, your mate wakes you with a question:

“What time are you going to get the fixings?”

Rubbing sleep from your eyes, you reply: “I figure around 1, after the game on TV.”

Your mate says: “Those turkeys take about 4 hours to cook, you do know.”

You didn’t know. But you can’t just ignore a college football game. Around 2 p.m., you’re out the door and on your way to market.

Turkey , you think. Yams. Stuffing. Cranberry sauce . Hopefully, Joey won’t forget the wine. Nina is to bring the dessert. Marcus better not forget the replacement guitar string he promised to bring. No foreseeable problems. In and out in 15, tops.

In the meat section, you decide a 12-pound Tom should fulfill the appetites of five adults. There are two brands to choose from. Eenie, meenie, minie, moe , and the choice is made.

On the way to the yams in the produce department, you spy a large aluminum roasting pan and realize you don’t have one. Into the cart it goes.

As a precautionary measure against forgetting something else, you decide to scan the cooking instructions listed on the turkey’s plastic covering.

“ Cook until temperature reaches 185-degrees inside turkey . . . About 4 hours. “

The “inside turkey” thing is a new development. You hunt down a meat thermometer, and into the cart it goes, along with the cheesecloth sack to line the turkey’s body cavity and hold the stuffing.

Still, you’re not quite ready for the yams. Among this impressive display of Thanksgiving cooking ware, you see packages containing thick string and 5-inch long needle-like pokers. Odd-looking things. You wonder what they’re for.

“You’ve never done this, have you?” says a grandmotherly woman who is contemplating the same packages. “You have to sew the bird up, so the stuffing doesn’t fall out all over the place.”

Ah, but of course. First the surgery, then the cooking. In the cart it goes.

Finally, you grab the yams, and it’s over to aisle 28 for stuffing.

There are many: microwave stuffing, 5-minute stuffing, “In the Bird or in the Saucepan” stuffing, seasoned corn bread stuffing. You settle on “herb seasoned,” and soon you’re out the door, 45 minutes after entering it.

Your guests are due to arrive at 7:30 p.m. It is now about 3. Things become harried.

Rinse turkey. Line cavity with cheesecloth bag--but not before removing giblets. Prepare stuffing. Discover insufficient butter reserves, make do with olive oil instead. Insert stuffing into turkey cavity. Commence surgery. Fail. Succeed on second effort. Preheat oven to 325 degrees.

You puncture the turkey with the small plastic-like thermometer, comforted by the little red button that is “guaranteed” to pop up when the temperature reaches 185 degrees inside the turkey. A modern marvel.

The whole thing goes into the oven at 3:30 p.m. Done by 7:30 p.m., you surmise. A little late, but not bad.

On your way to tossing out the plastic wrapping, however, you see something new in the roasting directions.

“Build an aluminum foil tent around the turkey . “

Reach in oven and remove turkey. Swear. You have just seared a panhandle brand into each palm. With oven gloves, pull the bird out. Discover you have no foil.

Back to the market you go, and while you’re there, you pick up the canned cranberry sauce you forgot the first time. Whew! Close call.

Time passes, and soon the doorbell is ringing. It’s 7:30 sharp, and the turkey can be heard popping and spitting in the oven. Your guests have brought ravenous appetites, and they say the place “sure smells good.”

You explain that dinner will be a bit tardy but worth the wait. For 40 minutes, you repeatedly check the status of the thermometer. When the 185-degree mark is reached, there are cheers all around, and a rush to the dinner table.

Success. Right?

“Dark or white?” asks your friend, the industrial engineer, still carving.

The wine glass pleasantly cools the seared flesh of your palm. Your guests have already offered kudos.

You call for white meat “and pass the gravy.” Then there’s a strange pause.

Oops. No gravy.

* THE PREMISE

There are plenty of things you have never tried. Fun things, dangerous things, character building things. The Reluctant Novice tries them for you and reports the results. After all, the Novice gets paid to do them-- and has no choice in the matter. If you want to tell the Novice where to go, please call us at 658-5547. If we use your idea, we’ll send you a present. This week’s Reluctant Novice is staff writer Rodney Bosch.