Today on Turkey Day, a term redolent of my youth, I am baking a leg of lamb, two mixed-berry gallettes, and a huge pile of roasted root veggies, asparagras, green salad, whole grain bread. I am SOOO sick of Turkey.
Probably I should explain the Turkey Day crack. When I was very young, we lived in Worthington, Minnesota, which actually called itself the Turkey Capital of the World. Why? Midwestern towns are most often agricultural service centers -- and Worthington, with its mostly bored population of about 8,000 on a good day, was no exception. So towns of this kind invent an identity. There was a big Campbell Soup Factory in town -- made turkey noodle soup -- and a large number of quite smelly turkey farms on the outskirts. So -- why not? Turkey Day.
On the official day, a small carnival was set up on a side street near the Nobles County courthouse. And of course there was a parade, featuring Miss Turkey Day (!!!), aka Miss Worthington -- a spot to which every comely young woman aspired (I didn't think of myself as comely, merely smart, and besides, I had too much work to do). At the appointed hour, floats would start wending their way down Main Street, and -- blare of trumpets -- the entire sheriff's department would appear on horseback, herding a gigantic flock of white turkeys down the street. Totally astonishing. Small children followed in its wake, picking up white feathers shed by the terrified birds.
Today, I am thinking about my mother, who would secretly love the anti-turkey position, but who would pretend otherwise for at least fifteen minutes.
Afterward, I'm going to knit for at least six hours.