The turkey wrestle

Today was the day to wrestle with the turkey -- the day after when you have to pull it apart, remove the meat and divvy it into packets with dressing for more dinners or sandwiches.  Then it's time to boil the carcass for turkey soup.  I almost cry when I watch Texan son-in-law throw out the carcass after he cooks the turkey.  My protestant upbringing screams, "terrible waste".  Step one finished.  What a mess.

When our dog was still with us, turkey-wrestling day was his favourite.  He would stand beside me in the kitchen and wait patiently for me to throw him bits of grizzle and scraps of meat.  Those were the days Charlie and I bonded bigtime.  Still miss that dog terribly, gone this summer eight years. 

Then I chide myself for bitching about dealing with excellent food.  I was even complaining about the task with a pool friend this morning, as some of us got back into our routines.  As expected, the lanes were packed with people I've never seen before -- people lugging themselves into the Y full of post-Christmas resolutions, which I read last about six weeks until the newcomers get bored and gradually drop off.

Years past, Boxing Day was always another big family gathering because it is son Scott's birthday.  This year it's a biggie, his 40th.  How did that happen?! I always prepared "fake fettucine", as my lower-fat recipt was known, along with caesar salad.  That's what he wanted every birthday, so I made it.  Sadly, this is the second year in a row we haven't seen him for Christmas or his birthday; his fiance runs the holiday schedules, as do all women, me included.  I laugh when I look back and remember how he swore that would "never happen".  "I'll be setting my own agenda," he avowed at our last dinner with him before we moved out here.  Yeah right.

Well, back to the turkey soup.