My Cardboard Balcony

The Turkeys Ran Away by Belinda Roddie The turkeys ran away once they heard news that Thanksgiving was upon them again. One turkey played the banjo, sang the blues, and practiced paltry (and poultry) laments. The birds all gathered and set up a camp, serving each other plates of pecan pie, and burned their feathers just to light their lamps at night so the bravest could keep an eye out for hunters or animals hungry for white or dark meat. When the morning came, the last notes of the banjo left to die, and a gunshot was heard across the lane where the turkeys slept. Boy, they clucked and prayed, but they could not escape the holiday.

I gave Roger twenty bucks in exchange for one of the fattest, juiciest turkeys he had prepared in the deli. When I took it home, I was giddy. Soon, the feasting would begin. The crispy skin on the poultry goodness as it simmered, gleaming, in the oven. The mashed potatoes laden with fresh butter and salt that would make my tongue dance. The casseroles and salads set to complement the copious wine and beer flowing from the bottles, just in time for the richness of the pie.