Getting Stuffed

Every year we go through this, and it’s always the same. That feeling in the depths of your soul—a mixture of terror and joy—that only arrives when you start thinking about how a certain day will turn out. The dreaded time when we plan our entire existence around…a bird.That’s right people, Thanksgiving. Gobble Gobble time. Literally. It’s the day when you actually wonder if your turkey will be big enough, even though you had to have help slicking it down with extra butter to get it squeezed into the oven.
In the old days, the males would hunt these scary, feathered monsters, putting their lives in danger and risking being pecked to death. They’d slay the menacing beasts and return triumphantly, presenting the results of their hunting skills to their females with a primal scream of victory. Their women would smile, award kisses and pats for bravery, and then sigh because they’d have to pluck all the feathers off before gutting, cleaning, preparing, and finally cooking the darn thing. Today, everyone just goes to the supermarket and pulls one from the freezer section along with everything else on the list. No plucking or gutting involved, unless it’s the last fresh eighteen-pound Butterball, and three women are after it. (I still mess it up by getting the wrong brand. Another reason my wife shakes her head at me.)

Read the entire article in the November 2016 issue of InD'Tale magazine.

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