Alex cooks Thanksgiving dinner. All of it. It started one year when he made the turkey and then he just took over more and more. Now, all I am responsible for is mixing the fruit cocktail into the Jell-o* and opening the cranberry sauce—you know, the gelatin food group.
In exchange for Alex’s continued cooperation in cooking all of Thanksgiving dinner, I try to not call too much attention to it and also avoid eye contact while thanking him profusely. I also am willing to look the other way when he insists on buying a fancy turkey from a farm market instead of a Butterball from the grocery store.
This isn’t such a bad thing, I suppose. Our first year in Maryland, we went to the grocery store the day before Thanksgiving to find a turkey, but all they had left were frozen turkeys. After assuring us that we were too late(!) and we would not be able to find a non-frozen turkey anywhere(!), the store employee suggested we buy two chickens instead.
We found a fresh turkey at the next grocery store over.
Anyway, when Alex tells me that he ordered a turkey from the farm market, I roll my eyes, get a couple extra twenties out of the ATM and prepare to eat myself sick. This year, however, Alex gave me the task of picking up the turkey myself.
I guess that picking up a 15-pound turkey on his motorcycle commute is not Alex’s cup of tea. C’mon, what are saddlebags for?
Word is that our turkey was “processed”** three days ago, so the munchkins and I headed down to the market today to pick up the bird. Turns out that said farm market is a stand on the side of the road.
I will neither confirm nor deny that I dropped our turkey in the mud.
Now he’s in our fridge all ready to be stuffed, basted, and devoured. Thank you,
kind hapless turkey, for being our dinner. I look forward to sitting on the couch while Alex cooks you.
I love Thanksgiving.
* I am WELL aware of how trashy this makes me, but twice a year I eat a whole box of raspberry Jell-o with fruit cocktail mixed in. Sue me.