Hey I know my ancient ancestors were ‘real men’ who had to run down and dance with anything they could get their ‘grubbies’ on just to avoid starvation. But even the most ardent and skilled ancient hunters probably didn’t shower either, before dragging a ‘kill’ back for others in the camp-clan to stuff n’ slather to the turkey tango. So ergo in modern times, I have technically already ‘done my share’ of the Thanksgiving prep. by picking-up the poultry in all its royal plumpness from the market and packing it home, right?
Oh sure you think I’m a ‘wuss’ and feel all high and mighty just because you fancy yourself as a master at buttering up and stroking cold, dead flesh per age old traditions. Remember morticians are pretty good at that too and even with their big high-brow Cadillacs, nobody EVER says they’re the life of the party. Besides, my tribe keeps me around for the NORMAL Ozark side dishes and immoral support. You haven’t really lived until you’ve feasted upon red Jello with buckets of fridge leftovers in translucent suspended animation, or my famous ‘hillbilly’ fresh greens overflowing with classy cheese-doodle croutons.
Still I wish I had the right stuff to shove a cuff up a big bird when called upon. Maybe it’s just a matter of practice so I need to stop being a chicken by ducking the plucking and start small to work my way up through the aviary food chain? I figure a finch is a cinch and a goose should boost my ‘hands-up’ experience with the egg-layers & cavity union. I am a bit skeptical though, because even if I triumph over my turkey touching trauma I still have to come face to fowl with the business end of an ostrich, ten pounds of Oleo and a toaster oven. I still don’t know how I’ll do it but like blogging, the best way is to NOT think about it and just ‘WING’ it!
Happy Thanksgiving!
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