We had Thanksgiving with part of my wife’s family in La Crescent, Minnesota. La Crescent is a small town in the far south-east corner of the the state, about a three hour drive from the Twin Cities.
This is the story of our turkey.
We in the city know where turkeys come from; they come from grocery stores. Dimly, in the recesses of our minds, we may be aware that turkeys are grown on farms, probably in fields, and harvested with the wheat and corn, or something. I imagine they would grow something like pumpkins, in a pleasant turkey-patch somewhere. Not on trees, certainly; whoever heard of a turkey orchard?
The turkey we ate on Thanksgiving was born in May, and came from a family of six. It is not often that one is privy to the intimate personal details of one’s dinner, and we counted ourselves duly blessed for this privilege.
We were not told his or her name.
When the turkey arrived at the house, it was freshly plucked, and still warm. Not warm from having been pre-cooked, oh no; warm from having just recently been alive.
Our turkey’s short life was not in vain, as it was delicious. We were relived to find out that its family will not be in mourning, as they also became dinner for others the same day.
Happy Thanksgiving.
