The Turkeys that Weren't Pardoned

Every year, we eat Thanksgiving dinner with our neighbors. When left to their own devices, Chuck, Helen-Marie, and their college-aged daughters pass over the turkey and stuffing in favor of homemade ravioli and made-from-scratch garlic bread. Fortunately they have me and my awesome cooking to save them from themselves.

My children spent the first part of the day fighting with each other in the basement. After lunch, I suggested that they take a break from the festivities and make seating placards for our dining room table (I'm one step away from Martha Stewart, I know). The process of tracing one's hand into the shape of a turkey took almost an hour. An equal amount of time, or so it seemed, was spent writing our dinner guests' names onto the pieces of paper.

Tragedy struck when Cortlen's turkey plopped himself onto the place setting next to the one occupied by Camber's turkey.

"You can't sit there!" my accommodating daughter screamed. "That's Helen-Marie's seat!"

Cortlen's turkey did not like to told what to do, especially by a bird with a bad attitude and pink toenails. He responded by ripping off those toenails, and the legs to which they were attached.

Although fatally wounded, Camber's turkey mustered enough strength in her dying breath to poke a hole through Cortlen's turkey with a fork.

Sadly, only four out of the eleven people eating dinner at our house tomorrow will know where to sit at the table.

The rest of the turkeys perished in the skirmish.