(a.k.a, The Turkey in my Standup Freezer and His Ignoble Fate)
Recently, I took advantage of what Publix Supermarkets refers to as a BOGO (Buy One, Get One) deal on Caesar dog food.
Normally, a small tray of the stuff sells for 80 cents, so as you might well imagine I ‘bought up’ a bunch of ‘em. For you see, I am the proud owner of a little female Shih Tzu named ‘Queenie,’ and our grand dog, Toby, sometimes spends the day with us, as well.
As I stepped up to the cashier’s line, I unloaded a hundred of the 3.5 ounce trays of every conceivable variety onto the conveyor belt. Filet minion, chicken & vegetables, veal, bacon & eggs, wild turkey, etc.
Speaking of turkey, while I can’t speak for Toby, (since he never plays favorites and will eat anything) Queenie is a great fan of this particular fowl; at least in its dearly departed, processed form. She simply loves the stuff.
Only this morning, I selected one of those 3.5 ounce Wild Turkey dogfood trays from a white cloth grocery bag, pulled the tab, and split the contents between Queenie and Toby; dumping the foul smelling fowl on two paper plates, and setting one on each side of their water dish.
Funny, as I scooped the last remnants of the prepared turkey into the paper plates I suddenly thought about one recent, and one not so recent event related to the bearded genus.
In 2008 former Alaska Governor (and my distant cousin) Sarah Palin was selected for the vice presidential slot on the John McCain presidential ticket. As a result, she made numerous campaign appearances throughout the nation. In one memorable appearance Palin visited a turkey farm, and as she was being interviewed by a local reporter, (and unbeknownst to her) something ‘strange and wonderful’ was ‘going on’ behind her.
Pt. 2
For you see, one of the hired hands on the farm was ‘going about his business’ as if nobody and nothing special was on the agenda that day. Retrieving a twenty plus pound turkey from the ground, and lifting the fettered bird to chest level, he summarily ‘fed’ the head and neck of the poor critter into an industrial guillotine; designed to spin it’s noggin into absolute mincemeat.
As the bird made his involuntary way into the device, suddenly the motor sprang to life, and Governor Palin’s response to the reporter’s previous question was drowned out by the wholesale slaughter going on behind her.
While I am not an avid viewer of the program, (given its increasing vulgarity over the years) and while I cannot be altogether sure, I expect Tina Fey of “Saturday Night Live” must have done a sketch relating to Palin’s experience on the turkey farm.
But speaking of turkeys, my home state of Florida, in which I currently reside is, at this time, facing a catastrophe of biblical proportions. For you see, a thousand miles south of my humble residence, a storm is brewing, and her name is ‘Hurricane Irma.’
Weather forecasters have referred to her as the potentially most horrendous storm in modern history. Irma has sustained winds of 185 mph, and gusts to 225, (the speed of an Indy racecar), and the highest winds ever recorded in the Atlantic Basin. Hurricane Irma is a ‘turkey’ we hope will just fly far from here.
As you might imagine, my wife and I have been preparing to do battle with this unwelcome wonder of nature, and one of yesterday’s chores involved divesting ourselves of outdated frozen food in our standup freezer. The first order of business was, you may have guessed, a frozen turkey.
As I pulled the door open, our finely (un)-feathered fowl was sitting on the second shelf, and shrink-wrapped in white plastic. He (or she) was definitely a bird to behold; topping out at an impressive 23 lbs.
And it occurred to me that he, (or she) might easily be the unfortunate turkey which lost his (or her) head behind Vice Presidential candidate Sarah Palin; (except for the time period in which that turkey rendered up the last full measure of devotion, and this was well before our own big bird gave up the ghost).
I can tell you that, as an animal lover, I felt pretty badly about dropping that massive gobbler into the garbage bin, without so much as chomping down on one of his (or her) lovely drumsticks. The poor bird had been in cold storage for a couple of years, and while, no doubt, his (or her) flesh would have been perfectly fine to consume, better safe than sorry.
But I couldn’t help but feel some regret. I mean, the gentle fowl had prematurely laid down his (or her) life on our behalf, and to what end? To unceremoniously be consigned beheaded, but uneaten to a garbage bin? And rather like Lady Macbeth’s monologue about the death of Duncan in which she exclaims, “Out, damned spot,” I can (at least, at some level) relate to her guilt-ridden regrets.
Afterward
As I was growing up, my family spent a week or two each summer in my grandmother’s South Georgia home, and more than once I watched her grab a chicken by the feet, lay its head on a chopping block, and proceed to decapitate the pitiful beast; the old-fashioned way. At which time, more often than not, the headless critter would flap its wings and run around in circles. No doubt, when the plate of chicken was passed around the table that evening, I debated whether to partake, or decline the gracious offer.
Back in the ‘40’s, some guy walked out back, and did much the same thing my grandmother was prone to do. But, strangely enough, this time around the headless fowl …refused to die, and continued to ‘strut his stuff.’ Evidently, a bit of this particular bird’s brainstem remained intact, and as it fell together, the hapless executioner contracted with state fairs across the nation, and, as a result, made tons of money off “Headless Mike.” Story is his owner dripped milk, and dropped corn kernels through the ragged orifice of his neck; until the heroic animal finally succumbed to his injuries.
In the scheme of things, in sharp contrast to his distant cousin from my standup freezer, I tend to think old Mike served a slightly more useful, though admittedly gruesome purpose.
(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 67. By William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending.
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