While I'm here in Vegas fretting over whether I will use paper plates, my brother killed a turkey yesterday. With a hatchet. I guess I never thought about how they killed the turkey - I just picked it up at the grocery store like everybody else in urban America. A hatchet! That sounds MUCH more messy and difficult than, say, a bullet. If someone told me I had to kill my own turkey, I'd rather use a gun. But no, it was all about hatchet, knife, and some blunt force trauma. My brother and his family are not in urban America. They're in rural America. And I think it's cool he got this opportunity, even if it is a little gross.
My turkey arrives via potluck tomorrow around three. Sometime in the hours between when I get up and when that bird arrives, I have to crank out two pies, some chutney, and mashed potatoes. And warm the ham. And figure out where to seat 17 people. And dust, I really need to dust. And probably clean the downstairs bathroom. And find a craft for eight kids to do. That's all.
He said the feathers were as thick as your pinky finger. Can you imagine plucking those suckers?