Six years ago, I got drafted into cooking the Thanksgiving turkey. Yeah, that’s what I said, the turkey! No pressure, right? Holy cow! I was not ready for that kind of responsibility. C’mon, if you mess up the turkey, you have completely ruined the Thanksgiving meal. I don’t care how good your stuffing and gravy turn out. They just don’t have the star status to carry Thanksgiving like the turkey does. Ben Franklin wanted to make it the national bird, for crying out loud. Everything rides on the turkey. That meant the entire success of Thanksgiving 2005 depended on me.
A famous admiral once said, “There are no extraordinary men, just extraordinary circumstances that ordinary men are forced to deal with.” Yes, I rose to the extraordinary challenge that year and cooked what I humbly admit was a turkey so succulent and golden brown it would have brought a tear to Martha Stewart’s eye.
Ever since then, I’ve been thinking about applying to be one of the Butterball hotline people, you know, those folks who provide tech support for turkeys. I can just imagine talking desperate house husbands like myself down from the ledge. “Sir, put down the carving knife. I’m here to help.”