Turkey Girl

Before me, not on a platter, but standing, was the centerpiece of our Thanksgiving feast.She was… a turkey. Not just any turkey, but a breathtakingly incongruous sight. Her form was undeniably human, clad in a charmingly rustic, country-style dress that seemed perfectly at home amidst the scattered flour and unfinished pie crusts. It was a getup that spoke of flannel and open fields, a stark contrast to the gleaming stainless steel of my appliances. And then there were her… proportions. Generous curves that seemed to defy gravity, a testament to an abundance that was as surprising as her very presence.My initial shock, a primitive jolt of fear, was quickly replaced by a peculiar bewilderment. This wasn't the stoic, oven-ready bird I’d anticipated. This was something… else. My mind, flitting between the overflowing mental menu – the fluffy cinnamon rolls, the savory stuffing promising nostalgic comfort, the creamy mashed potatoes yearning for that silken gravy cascade, the ruby tartness of the cranberry sauce, the sweet, spiced embrace of the sweet potato casserole, the earthy crunch of green bean casserole, and the endless parade of pies awaiting their moment – struggled to process this living, breathing anomaly.The air thrummed with unspoken possibilities. Was this a bizarre Thanksgiving hallucination brought on by pre-feast stress? A surreal prank? Or something far stranger? The usual Thanksgiving anxieties – the potential for a dry bird, the debate over dark versus white meat, the sheer logistical nightmare of timing everything perfectly – evaporated, replaced by a single, overwhelming question: What did she want?