Turkey Day

As the sky pinks, Earle, Jaz and Mac pace our field, grateful for the chance to graze more freely after several hard frosts have helped brown the foliage and reduce its sugar content (we hope). The donkeys, adamant vegetarians, may be happy turkey day is done at Elk Cliff Farm.

I didn't notice them watching the goings-on this morning, as we fetched cold water for a couple large coolers and heated three giant pots of water on the stoves. As most of you know, Kroger is our backyard and our backyard is Kroger. We no longer buy butterballs.

Fortunately, poults are cute in May and six months later they are pests. Karen returned from milking a couple days ago with a still-bleeding finger, an omen, perhaps, that turkey day must not be postponed. If they wanted to win her sympathy, biting her wasn't the way to do it.

At 9:30, Dan and Amy arrived and we began Thanksgiving in earnest. Karen caught the first bird and carried it by its legs, upside down. As soon as the world's topsy-turvy, turkeys are quiet and docile. I held it high while she bungeed it to a clothesline pole. She applied the first killing knife and we watched the grass redden, which Lex and the chickens would clean up as soon as we moved away. I continued holding the feet while she held the head and covered its eyes, sort of like holding hands bedside I suppose, probably comforting the holders more than the held, waiting for the last energy to flow. Then came sixty seconds at 150 degrees, hand-plucking, a cold soak, and time in a freezer or refrigerator.

No photos, please, not on this knife-initiation day for me. This is not something we enjoy, nor do we wish to preserve pictures for posterity. How can we do this, many people ask. We do it because we want to know where our meat comes from, we want to watch it eat and grow, and we want to believe its life was happy until this final day. If I can't do this, I will be vegetarian (and recognize that animals live inside the vegetables and were likely killed during the growing).

"I thought turkey day was Thursday?" says Virginia.

That's meat day. Today was turkey day, a beautiful day with good friends, feathered and not.

Screaming

America, let's make a deal and turn off the screamers -- whether democrat, republican, libertarian or whatever.  Simply switch to another station or find something else to do.  If all of us stop listening, maybe they'll shut up.  They're bound to when the money stops rolling in.

"That's easy for you to say," says Virginia.  "How much time do you spend watching TV or listening to radio?"

Hey, I was screaming the other day.  When I realized no one was listening, I felt like an idiot.  The mirror cracked.

I smell turkey soup.  Karen cooked one of our frozen flock yesterday.  The bones went into a stockpot.  Soup's especially welcome in cold weather.  Tonight's low may reach the teens.

"You're avoiding me," says Virginia.

Maybe it's time to toss her into the soup, maybe one of those self-help books ("Virginia's Soup for Civil America")?  I've heard they usually sell better than novels.

Ten Questions

My publisher asked me to submit 10 questions folks should be asking about the financial reform bill (Dodd-Frank Wall Street Reform and Consumer Protection Act).

"Drop it," says Virginia.  "No one wants to read about that."

I know.  I wasn't going to write about that.  Here are my 10 questions.

1.  So you raised turkeys for 5 1/2 months.  Where are they now?  -- In our freezer.

2.  You didn't!  How could you?  I thought they were pets.  -- They were never pets.

3.  But, what did it feel like?  -- Not good.  I'm glad it's over.

4.  Are you glad you did it?  -- Yes, it was an important experience.  It brought into focus what's really behind those neat meat counter packages that mislead us into forgetting what we're buying.

5.  I don't want to get that close.  Must I?  -- No, that's totally up to you, but don't tell me I'm heartless or I'll tell you a thing or two.

6.  Do you think your frozen packages had a better life than those in the meat counters?  -- Yes, definitely.  They lived in a pasture under the sun, free to run around and eat bugs, worms, crabapples and other things.  They even got hugs once in a while.

7.  Right, like turkeys care.  They don't, do they?  -- I have no idea, but I care.  (And if I ever come back as a turkey, I definitely don't want to be packed in a factory with 50,000 others so tightly I can hardly move.)

8.  I hate to come back to this, but what was it like watching them die?  -- No fun.  I held their feet tightly, hoping my touch might help them through it, sort of like holding hands.

9.  Did you do the deed?  -- Actually no, although I might as well have since my eating caused it.  A friend of ours with experience in Africa accepted the honor.

10.  Will you be raising turkeys next year?  -- Maybe, but definitely not as many as the 19 we did this year.