Early Thanksgiving morning. The pies are cooling on the counter, and the house is sparkling clean. Hubby has already helped you set the table with your best china and silver. The candles are in their holders, and there is an arrangement of autumn leaves and flowers lending their scent to the spicy aroma of pumpkin pie that wafts from the kitchen. You've built a fire in the wood stove to put you in that mellow mood. The bottles of white wine are cooling in the fridge. You have just added the last ingredients to the fragrant turkey stuffing, and the oven is preheating. Your largest roasting pan stands waiting on the counter.

Hubby comes up from the basement carrying the twenty pound butterball that's been defrosting slowly on the cold concrete floor. He grabs the big knife, slashes the bag open and lays the bird on the cutting board for you to stuff. He hands you the knife and says, "there you go, dear" and takes himself to the living room for a fast nap before the game begins.

You bring your bowl of stuffing to the counter where the bird lies. Your eye skims over the bird in a more professional manner than you'd like. You want to think of this as supper. This will be on a platter, succulent golden skin and juices oozing. You look at the skin flap through which the legs protrude and wonder how you'd feel with your legs stuck through your bum cheeks. Your raise a tentative hand and release the legs. They spring apart as if relieved to be free... as if they remember what it is to strut and run through the tall summer grass. You wipe a little moisture from your eye that bight be the last of an onion tear, but might not. You turn the bird over onto his stomach so that you can rub spices into his skin.

His name was Tom, you think. You touch the place where his little neck used to start, and run your hand down the spine to the "pope's nose"... you find yourself looking for the preen gland. You turn the bird on its side, and notice that there seems to be a fracture above the wrist. You peer at the skin and see the spots where the fat has been implanted for self-basting. You wonder if it's all really butter, and poke it with your finger. Maybe it's not butter... maybe some of those spots are tumors or pox... you run to the closet and grab your microscope and grab your necropsy scalpel from the rehab room as you whiz past... you make a few small slits and remove a bit of the greasy substance. Well, under the microscope THAT looks like it might be butter, but maybe the one over there isn't, so you have a look at that, too.

You find yourself glancing at the wing again and wonder about that fracture... you decide to have a look, since you have the scalpel in your hand anyway... you find a hairline fracture that probably occurred after death, and study the lines, wondering how you would have bandaged that to get a correct set... you run back to the rehab room and grab your avian wing wrap and decide to give it a try. There. That sucker would set beautifully. That would be one turkey who could fly again!

You lay the turkey on its back once more, and examine the keel bone. The breast muscle is well formed. This was probably a healthy bird. That gets you thinking about healthy birds and unhealthy birds. Salmonellosis springs to mind, and you peer into the body cavity and have a sniff. You can see the little innards quite well. You pull out the bag of gizzard, liver and heart, and find yourself doing a couple of cross sections and having a peek under the microscope.

You decide to do a swab and have a look to see if there's any fecal matter or other stuff you should know about. It looks pretty suspicious. You begin to worry that you'll poison your guests. Your mother is bringing her 83 year old girlfriend, and your husband's parents will both be there. Your sister and husband are expected, and with them will be their two children. Your brother in law and his new girlfriend are coming, too. You can't afford to poison all your loved ones.

Back to the rehab room you run, and you grab your big bottle of ivermectin. Back in the kitchen, you grab your turkey baster and fill it up. You start squirting ivermectin all over the inside of the bird. You set the kitchen timer to twenty minutes. Surely in twenty minutes, everything alive will have died... you decide that to be on the safe side, you should give the bird a shot of antibiotic, and find yourself looking for one that's safe to use on avians. You calculate his weight and compute the dosage. There. A clean bird.

The kitchen timer is still ticking, so you decide to have another look at a section of the liver to see if you can tell whether the bird has been exposed to pesticides. The timer goes off. You wonder how to get the ivermectin out of the bird. You don't want to deworm your mother's friend. You remember that heat destroys a lot of things, as does salt water. You get out your watering can and fill it up with hot water and salt, and pour it into the bird. Then, you put the bird into the dishwasher and put it through the sani cycle.

While the bird is washing, you go back to your microscope and have a look at the gizzard. You've never had a good chance to look at a gizzard. Before you know it, the machine clicks off. You hadn't meant for it to go through the entire drying cycle, but you don't know where the time went.

You put on your asbestos mitts and open the door. A nearly cooked bird lies dripping water and steaming before you. You attempt to lift it, but the flesh has cooked to the point where everything is soft and the legs are flopping and threatening to pull out of the skin. You stand and think a minute, and notice that you've forgotten to remove the avian wingwrap. You decide to unwind a bit of it and rewrap it so the bird is trussed like a mummy. You grab your biggest cookie sheet and manage to slide the bird onto it.... you hurry over to the counter and it slips from the sheet into the roasting pan with a thud.

You check the time and realize you've spent two hours doing a postmortem on a frozen and eviscerated turkey. Your company will be at your door hungry and waiting to be greeted by the smell of roasting bird. You grab handfuls of stuffing and begin to hurl them into the cavity. You hear your hubby stirring on the couch, and it's a sudden race against time. There. Stuffed. You try to wedge the legs back through the bum cheeks, but the skin has shrunk... Oh, no, you're going to have to close it in some other way.

You look at the wing wrap. A few minutes later, the legs are professionally trussed in such a way that nothing will escape that sucker. You toss on some spices and wonder whether you should suture together the incisions you made and repair the wing. It's too late... hubby's heading for the kitchen... You toss the roaster in the oven and slam the door shut just in time. Hubby stretches and yawns. "How's it going, hon?" he asks, nose twitching as it tries to grab the elusive smell of turkey from the air. "Oh", you answer... "everything's under control." You flick the oven dial up to five hundred as you smile at him.

An hour later, your family is seated in the living room clutching their drinks. A delicious smell hangs in the air, and you excuse yourself to go to the kitchen and put the final preparations to the meal. As you peel potatoes and scrape carrots, you see that you've forgotten to put away your microscope and surgical instruments. The bottle of ivermectin stands uncorked beside the turkey baster. While the family is preoccupied and chattering, you quickly scoop everything up and dump it onto the floor of the rehab room. There.

An hour later, your guests are seated at the table. The mashed potatoes steam in their bowl, a lump of golden butter melting on the top. Candied yams, buttered carrots, baby sprouts, pickled beets, fresh rolls and butter, plump cranberries in sauce, a casserole full of golden dressing, and a tureen of hot, brown and creamy gravy stand waiting. Hubby comes in carrying the turkey on the platter. It is golden and succulent and smells delicious. He puts it on the table. All conversation stops. There, on it's legs, is a big bow of avian wing wrap.

Your mother breaks the silence. She smiles. "Oh, isn't that nice dear, you decorated the turkey," she says.

Your eyes meet your husbands. His mouth is a tight line.

He knows what avian wing wrap looks like.

Dishes are passed, and the turkey is carved. Your brother in law takes the first bite. "Oh," he murmurs, "this is the most tender and moist turkey I've ever eaten." Everyone else tastes theirs, and they agree. "New recipe?" asks your mother in law... "Yes," you nod... Your sister passes the bowl of dressing and you remember the ivermectin. "No thanks", you mumble, "I'm watching my weight."

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!