An unsuspecting turkey lies in wait, submerged in a sodium and sugar bath. Various cans in all sizes and colors are opened, emptied then pushed aside like presents on Christmas morning. The fire burns, hungrily awaiting its own dinner of beans, tubers, marshmallows, tofu, and our ominous bird. Stuffing's are re hydrated and potatoes smashed, by the delicate hands of the Kelly's, join the stubborn cranberry jelly who apparently refuses to succumb to the effects of gravity or vanity. Fermented and crushed, grapes fall into glasses while delicate rolls turn Cajun in the oven, negligence due to engaging conversations. All communication stops albeit that between forks and delicious nourishment. Empty plates litter the table followed by shoeless feet attempting to force much needed blood towards the orgy of digestions commencing in the torso. The room of once witty patrons is replaced with moaning, sluggish zombies drunken with tryptophan and anchored down by a years supply of sweet-sweet potatoes. The fridge, earlier relieved of its' generous payload, is stacked Tetris-style with Tupperware, crock-pots, and aluminum-covered bowls of mashed potatoes and peas. The door is grudgingly closed on the delicacies inside as well as on another fantastic Turkey Day.
