1.

Ten years ago my father started cooking the Thanksgiving bird outside on the grill. Criss cross coal and hickory branded the meat, crisp brown skin. I take a picture, every year, of my father lifting the meat off the fire. An entire photo album dedicated to the Thanksgiving animal.

A body sectioned off, cut through by an electric knife. Electric. Edges, almost pink, lie on my plate. After every bite my father inquires, with an almost schoolboy curiosity, Can you taste the hickory chips? Can you?

2.

Three years ago I stopped eating meat.

3.

Every Thanksgiving my father offers me a plate of flesh. You still eat turkey, right? Don’t you miss the hickory?

My sarcastic plate of potatoes, squash, and lettuce send my father into a wine washed monologue of eating meat. Seriously, you don’t want to try a little piece? I do, but I would never tell him. I look at the bird and recall the animal, the absent referent. I decline once again.

4.

Truth: Most turkeys don’t give a shit whether or not they end up in an oven or a grill.

My father seems to be the only one who cares.

5.

A wild turkey, dead on the highway, greets me as I drive home. I smell hickory.

I place the plate of food my mother sent, mashed potatoes and green beans, in the fridge and stick this year’s photo of my father and the Thanksgiving bird on the freezer door.

Last updated on Monday, January 29th, 2007 .