I always got to be the turkey. My huge passel of much-older and much-larger cousins invariably took all the good parts for the holiday skit we’d all do for our parents before the oldest ones started getting too old, and going off to college.
And no, it wasn’t a very good part, either, even though the turkey is, so my cousins told me, so very important to Thanksgiving. My part involved curling up into a little ball and staying crouched under the small table that served as a pretend oven on the stairway landing that was our temporary stage. At the end I got to jump out of the “oven door” and yell that I wasn’t done yet. I like to think that I did this with my customary eclat and wonderful sense of comedic timing.
But the parents, of course, arranged on their sofas and chairs and ottomans, loved it.
white pebble 