MyThreeDaughters

Check out those organic turkeys in the picture.
(That must be organic grass they’re walking on.)
But they look like…
Oh, I know what you’re thinking. They’re chickens. But they’re turkeys. Let me explain.
Wife phoned me from the grocery store before Thanksgiving, and the options for the big, traditional meal were: giant turkey breast, for our little nuclear family, or a smaller organic chicken.
Fontaine, we figured, she’d try some. Elizabeth, at the age of four, appears to have somehow staked a claim as a vegetarian (Fontaine, on the other hand, says if there’s no meat, there’s no meal, and refers to people who even eat vegetables as “vegetarians.”) Rosebud, she’d pour milk on some turchicken and throw it on the floor.
We went with the chicken. But we were afraid the girls would be disappointed without a turkey (see: Pilgrims), so we just decided to refer to the organic chicken all day as “The Turkey.”
<i>How’s the turkey coming along?
Ooh, the turkey is smelling good.
Anybody want a turkey leg?</i>
They’d just seen “A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving,” which presented a final hurdle. They found out about the wishbone.
I don’t really know what part the wishbone comes from, but upon some (my nearly-vegan sister has probably dropped out long ago, so I will continue with this sentence) rooting around in the faux-turkey carcass, I pulled out a bone in the shape of a Y.
So that proves it; it was a turkey.
There’s no Y in chicken.