I'm already sick of turkey. I'm sick of the
idea of it, disgusted by the thought of it, huge, pale and looming on
the kitchen counter, threatening and nasty, unconciliatory like the
approach to a war. Those goosebump pimples on its hide, the nasty neck
looking like someone's severed penis captured and wrapped in tight
plastic with dangling gizzards, bloody liver, little gobs of excess fat,
it all adds up to sheer terrorism, and I won't have it. Not for the
rising aroma from the oven that serves as the fireplace-replacement of
our times, steely and meaningful; not for the drumstick which screams
like a Medieval painting when wrenched free from its tendons, hungering
peasants and small children alike.
-- Karen Resta
