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Life Happens: Turkey on the run

Ah, it’s Thanksgiving time again. For 15 years, I have battled my nemesis, the fiendish turkey-cooking woman who writes this column. Last year, I have to admit, she won. She cooked my giblets, all right. And served them with gravy and a smile.

This year, she’s got another thing coming. There is no way I will ever get into a roaster pan. I will not be stuffed and trussed. I will not serve 10-12 people, and I will not provide enough of my succulent breast meat for leftovers. In other words, she better find herself another entrée for Thanksgiving Day. This bird is not playing nice, this year.

I can see her through the window, cackling softly as she gathers her Cutco® knives. She’s shredding that stuffing bread, like a warrior, and stirring her cauldron of butter, celery and onions. I hope she can use that stuffing with a nice block of tofu, because I’m ready to rumble.

She’s opening the refrigerator door. What’s this, she asks? Where’s the turkey? I can see the perplexed look on her face. Why, I was in there a few hours ago. Where am I now?

I’m in the bushes, of course, getting the lay of the land. She underestimated my tactical skill. But what’s this? What is she doing?

Night vision goggles? A bandolier? That can’t be grappling hooks strapped to her bulletproof vest! What is this, the Hunger Games?

Luckily, I watch movies, too. Ninja stars? Check. Nunchakus? Check. Fabulous black satin Ninjitsu uniform? Double check. Oh yeah. Bring it, woman.

I’m waiting here for you, in the front yard, a turkey warrior of mayhem.

Wait! Where did she go? Oh no! I’ve lost her. Do I hear leaves rustling? No, it’s just the wind. I might have to change my strategy. I’ve been down that mixed martial arts road with her before. She’s got mad fighting skills, for an older lady.

I know! I’ll sabotage the kitchen! If I steal the roaster pan and those knives, there won’t be any way for her to cook a Thanksgiving dinner. A simpler strategy is just to disable the whole dinner-making machine. I’ll take the celery, the potatoes and that blasted gravy boat. Even if she catches me, she won’t be able to cook me, if she doesn’t have anything to cook me with.

It’s the perfect plan. I’m going to need a really big bag. In her haste to defeat me, she left the door unlocked. A rookie mistake.

Okay, here goes! Pans, knives, onions, poultry seasoning, brussel sprouts, everything! Into the bag. My goodness, that’s heavy. How much stuff does she need, anyway?

I’ve got it all, right down to the little paper frilly things that she loves to put on my drumsticks. Good luck, woman! Try and make Thanksgiving dinner now!

I just have to drag this bag out the door, and blessed freedom! What? You! How long have you been standing there? Darn your stealth boots!

I ricochet across the counter, but she’s on me in a hot second. Quickly, she grabs the kitchen twine from her bandolier, trussing me faster than you can say, “Happy Thanksgiving.” But I’m ready. I grab her trusty potato peeler and slice the twine. I’m free! But wait! What’s this? She’s duct-taped the door closed. She thinks ahead, this one. Flying across the kitchen, she grabs the roaster in one smooth motion and grabs my tender turkey bottom with the other. Yikes!

Well-played, old woman. I’ll get you, next year. You will have a tofu Thanksgiving, one day! Mark my words. I’ll be stronger than ever, next year.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! Go vegetarian!


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