But then I took to wondering about the scene in the book where the reformed Scrooge tells the little boy to go and buy the biggest turkey in the butcher’s shop and take it to the Cratchit residence, and the boy replies: ‘What, the one as big as me?’ I asked myself:
How long would it take to cook a turkey as big as that? Would it cook in time for the Cratchit family to eat before bed time? I had an experience along those lines once and I know that big turkeys take a very long time to cook if you’re to avoid the risk of contracting salmonella. And the turkey in my case was nothing like as big as a little boy.
Would the kind of range they had in Victorian terraced houses be big enough to accommodate such a bird? I just looked at my own range (which remains a notable, if impractical, point of interest in my office, this room having been the kitchen when the house was built) and I doubt it.
Would Mrs Cratchit own a roasting tin big enough for the job? Considering how poor the Cratchits were, it’s most unlikely. I suppose they could have used the family tin bathtub, but that certainly wouldn’t fit in the oven. (‘Maybe they had a spit over the fire,’ you might suggest. ‘They lived in a hovel in Victorian London,’ I would reply, ‘not Downton Abbey.’)
So there you have it – how the rational half of my brain works when it decides to make its presence felt. Always looking for plot holes, you see. Such a shame. Now I have an image of a downcast Bob throwing the great dead bird out into the street to the delight of the local feral cats. Rather spoils the story, doesn’t it?
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