It was all so simple on Adair Street.
For Thanksgiving, Mom ordered the bird from our local yokel, threw it in the back seat of the station wagon next to the barf bucket, scrubbed it (the turkey, not the bucket), stuffed the puppy, slathered it with butter and baked the sucker until it was dry as the scale on granny’s heels.
Unlike today, her only choices were tom or hen, boy or girl. For that decision, she deferred to Dad, who clearly preferred breasts, so the girl came hom...
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