We wait in line for several minutes, time during which I explain to Turner we are having turkey, T-U-R-K-E-Y, turkey for Thanksgiving. We talk about what turkeys look like and how they sound. On the ride home we have an extended conversation about the turkey being dead. He couldn't understand that it was dead even though he knew we were going to eat it. I tried to convey to him that we don't eat things while they still have breath in their body. Then he wanted to know where the breath had went. Why did someone kill the "chicken"? How did they kill it? Where is the "chicken's" family? What will I do with the feathers?
Yesterday I disrobe the bird and start it a-soaking. Turner was fascinated. He asked question after question again trying to understand how a turkey could look like a guy with a hat as well as the pale, feather-less hunk of meat in front of us.
I show Turner the wings and lots of goodies while we cleaned the turkey. When I run the turkey's first bath, Turner asks with a sheepish grin and downcast eyes, "Can I play with that chicken for a little bit?"
I salt and soak and salt and soak.
Today, Turner has spent some of his morning watching PBS. Mostly, though, he's been in the kitchen helping me cook. He sees me stabbing around under the turkey's skin shoving butter in all places. "Mom! Stop that."
"What?"
"Stop that. You are hurting that chicken."
"Turner, the turkey doesn't have feelings anymore because it is dead."
"You don't know that."
"Well, OK. That is kinda why some people choose not to eat meat. Not everyone eats turkey at Thanksgiving."
"Yeah but Ms. Carolyn will be disappointed."
"If what? If we don't eat turkey?"
"Yeah. She likes those kind of chickens a lot" a long pause "and apple pie."
1 comment:
i LOVE this post. i laughed OUT LOUT so many times.
too cute.
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