It's an early Thanksgiving morning.
Annie is watching Del, her mother, prepare a twenty-two-pound turnkey.
Del takes a handful of torn day-old bread, mixed with sautéed celery and onions, bits of giblets, and lots of sage. She packs it into the bird.
"Why are you doing that?" Annie rubs her sleepy brown eyes.
Del turns to Annie and smiles. "Because it's delicious." After filling the turkey, she takes the golden heel from a loaf of Wonder bread and seals it.
Through tangles of long curly hair, Annie scratches her scalp. "Why are you doing that?"
"So, the stuffing won't fall out." Del rinses her hands under the faucet and picks up a poultry needle.
Annie frowns. "Why are you doing that?"
"To keep the skin together." Del drives in the sharp point and draws the string.
"You're hurting it!"
"The turkey is dead," Del tells Annie. "It can't feel."
"It's not dead.” Annie, tugs on her mother's arm. “Stop it.”
"Be a good girl and let me finish." Del sews and snips. "There. Done."
Annie gives her mother a glare as only a three-year-old can. She stands there staring at the turkey, shoulders slumped, and tears rolling down her cheek, "Poor turkey," she cries. "Poor. Poor Turkey."
Annie is watching Del, her mother, prepare a twenty-two-pound turnkey.
Del takes a handful of torn day-old bread, mixed with sautéed celery and onions, bits of giblets, and lots of sage. She packs it into the bird.
"Why are you doing that?" Annie rubs her sleepy brown eyes.
Del turns to Annie and smiles. "Because it's delicious." After filling the turkey, she takes the golden heel from a loaf of Wonder bread and seals it.
Through tangles of long curly hair, Annie scratches her scalp. "Why are you doing that?"
"So, the stuffing won't fall out." Del rinses her hands under the faucet and picks up a poultry needle.
Annie frowns. "Why are you doing that?"
"To keep the skin together." Del drives in the sharp point and draws the string.
"You're hurting it!"
"The turkey is dead," Del tells Annie. "It can't feel."
"It's not dead.” Annie, tugs on her mother's arm. “Stop it.”
"Be a good girl and let me finish." Del sews and snips. "There. Done."
Annie gives her mother a glare as only a three-year-old can. She stands there staring at the turkey, shoulders slumped, and tears rolling down her cheek, "Poor turkey," she cries. "Poor. Poor Turkey."
