The Bird and I

              There it is on the kitchen counter.  It’s pale, cold, raw and as unappetizing as an object could be. It is going to be up to me to make it turn into the centerpiece of a feast.  I am supposed to make it brown and juicy, and have it done by five o’clock.

         All week thawing it was there every time I opened the fridge.  It had been a frozen cannon ball when I chose it from a pile of others just like it.  Now it was a thawed cannon ball.

         Sure, I can cook breakfast: eggs, bacon, and no problem.  I can open cans and microwave things, but this is a raw slippery cold turkey with hollowed out insides waiting to be stuffed.  The cookbook tells me what to do but this morning it seems to have been written in Sanskrit.

         I stand here totally intimidated by a dead bird.  Where is it written in stone that every household in America must have roast turkey every fourth Thursday in November?  Is there some kind of a law?  I could make baked ziti.  I am good at ziti.  I could make a roast beef.  I could make shake and bake.  But no, custom demands a turkey.  They expect a turkey.  Why a turkey?  Who knows?  Lost in the deeps of time is the reason why a turkey. 

         A turkey is what they call a failed theatrical offering.  Good name for this bird, a name that means failure.  A name associated with not-too-bright.

         Well here goes.  Oven don’t fail me now!  What does the cookbook say to do first?

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