I went to the butcher

I went to the butcher today to pick up my turkey, and when he pointed at the inside of the turkey and asked a question of the form “skal jeg udtage…[gibberish]” I assumed he was asking if I wanted the giblets removed. Feeling agreeable, I said yes, and then he took my poor innocent turkey off into the back room. When he came back, the turkey was in two plastic bags, and limp – he had taken out the entire sternum and rib cage assemblage. So tomorrow morning I will have an impromptu laboratory session in anatomy, as I sort out all the bits that go into the gravy from all the bits that go into the oven, and also one in topology, as I try and stuff the rib cage back inside the turkey. It’ll be good fun, and in the worst case scenario I’ll serve a limp turkey that’s easier to carve, and all the stuffing will be on the side.

The only thing is, I feel so sad for that poor limp carcass, with its legs and wings all floppy and its middle collapsing. Cooking a Thanksgiving turkey is a bit like caring for a baby, what with the basting every half hour, and this year I feel like my baby has been dosed with thalidomide. I think I’ll be sticking to frozen-solid Butterballs from now on.

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