Turkeys That Have Known Me

I couldn’t decide whether to write about men that I’ve known or actual turkeys. However, on behalf of the day, I chose those 2 legged, if I were you I’d make myself scarce, members of the bird family.

I myself don’t eat it. It reminds me too much of growing up in Connecticut being force fed dark meat by my mother. She had the quirky habit of naming her turkeys, bad news for a little girl who assumed that meant she just had, though frozen, a new doll to add to her collection.

I’d spend considerable time playing near the freezer opening it frequently to tell Tom or Eddie something or other when my mother wasn’t looking. At night I’d covertly climb on a chair to cover him with a sweater. My grandfather, my trusty accomplice, would come take it off before you know who saw it. When the time came to defrost him my spirits sank. One year I stole Tom (or was it Eddie) and hid him under my bed. Not a good place since he was found in no time and I was severely spanked, the iddy biddy animal activist that I was even back then.

Dinner was traumatic when I saw my friend glowing on his china platter with potatoes, carrots and pearl onions placed all around him like Xmas lights. I refused to eat which is when my mother would break out the big guns. I think I was punished till I was 9. I called her names like mean mommy and turkey killer, the latter being pretty sophisticated for a 4 year old. I might have heard it on Gunsmoke or Bonanza, my dad’s two favorite shows.

Of course even though I swore I’d never eat again there was always Grampa who would sneak up to my room with salami and cheese.

My mother finally got smart and stopped naming her birds but the harm was already done.

Just yesterday I went by Lobell’s, New York’s Tiffany of butchers, and saw two massive trucks filled with freshly killed turkeys. It made me cry. Do we really need to slay so many just to say thanks? A little fusilli with marinara sauce would do the trick too you know.

There is an actual organization where you can save a turkey by buying its life. No, he doesn’t come to live with you but he does get to live another day.

As far as all those dead birds go, I can only imagine what it did to my mother’s overall karma that wasn’t so promising to begin with.

Oh well…

Happy Thanksgiving to all.

I love this little guy…just so you know, he’s playing the Turkey Trot.


About Susannah Bianchi

I'm just a girl who likes to write slightly on slant. I've had a career in fashion, dabbled in film and to be honest, I don't like talking about myself. Now my posts are another matter so I will let them speak for themselves. My eBooks, A New York Diary, Model Behavior: Friends For Life and Notes From A Working Cat can be found on Amazon.com. Thanks.
This entry was posted in animals, Family, food, humor, kids, Love, New York City, parents, Uncategorized, women, writing and tagged , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

11 Responses to Turkeys That Have Known Me

  1. Rob says:

    I admire your stance.


  2. jimmie chew says:

    i’m with you S.B.!


  3. D. D. Syrdal says:

    I can just picture you dragging poor headless Eddie up the stairs to your room and sliding him under the bed. Kind of Addams Family 😉


  4. Sandy Hansson says:

    Happy Thanksgiving, I have a great old holiday inn photo,you can find me on Facebook
    SandyHansson. Pix of white mustang. Convertible


  5. Jed says:

    Hear, hear. A little whole wheat pasta of any shape with, let’s see, garlic & oil would be far preferable to decapitating the innocent. It also is odd to me that Americans seemingly don’t heat their apple pies before serving them. If they’re good, heating them makes them better. I’ll spare you the rest.
    Love the blanket.


  6. Jed says:

    I mean the sweater.


  7. Even as an itty bitty good taste was in your blood. “Fashion first Eddie, just because you’re in the freezer about to meet your demise doesn’t mean you can’t look good.” A kid with convictions, it doesn’t get better. Hope you had a nice day.


    • Thought of you holding that politically correct balloon. Was it fun? Yes, fashion has always been on my mind. I remember I refused to wear colored tights. White was it. The stuff one remembers. Hope Chester had a little stuffing when no one was looking. After all, I bet there was some Pilgrim who had a Beagle at his table. Not that I’ve met Chester, but I could see him in one of those pointy hats.


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