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Gobble Gobble

I turned fifty-seven this week. I was also diagnosed with pulmonary embolism. As I was resting in my bed, I realized that people in our age bracket and beyond tend to find that time really starts flying. So in our reality, the holidays are right around the corner. Here is my story (albeit a bit early):

It was Thanksgiving and I was bringing my fiancé home to meet my family. Our neighbors had asked my Dad if he would baste their turkey every half hour while they went from the island by ferry to the airport to pick up their friends. He generously agreed.

Dad watched the ferry pull out of the harbor, and went to our extra refrigerator and pulled out a Cornish hen. We were a little curious, no doubt as our Dad was always up to something, being the great practical joker that he is. He disappeared for a few minutes and came back with our neighbors’ turkey and put it in our extra oven. He left their foil as if it was covering a large turkey, but instead it was the Cornish hen.

Our neighbors said they would be back on the three o’clock boat. We watched it come around the bend, and once it docked, my Dad started to watch his watch. About ten minutes went by and the phone rang. My Dad answered, “Galloping Gourmet.” We all could hear their frantic voices on the other end, “Our turkey, our turkey.” After what seemed like a long time, though it was only a few minutes, my Dad finally convinced them that their turkey was safe over here in our extra oven. He let them keep the Cornish hen for good measures. And that was my fiancés first initiation into my family.