Of Jail Bait, Butterballs and Duct Tape

It's transport Tuesday.  Butterball will take a trip over to Colburn later this afternoon where its final feast preparations will be made. 

Our turkey day will be held at my sisters' home, as will the Christmas feast.  I finally came to the realization that our house is just too small for a crowd of any size.  

So, I proposed to my sisters that they host the holiday dinners, and I'll be happy to do the summer and fall barbecues where bodies don't have to sit around like sardines in a can.  

Their house is not big, but it has a lot more wiggle room than mine.  So, they seemed okay with the idea.  Looks like we'll have at least nine at the table on Thursday. 

Part of the agreement involved my offering to purchase the turkey and provide several other ingredients for dinner, including rolls, jelly, sweet 'taters, cranberries and turnips.  

Turns out my sisters already had cranberries, so mine will be put on hold for another day. I never have to purchase too many turnips because seldom do I see anyone asking for a second helping at the table.

But Mother always had turnips at the table, so we keep up the tradition, and most everyone samples a bite or two. 

I bought Butterball last week at Yoke's and figured I'd drop the bird off a few days early. 

My sister Barbara, head turkey preparer at the Tibbs sisters' house, refused to accept delivery of the 22-pounder until today.  

I tried to assure her that Butterball would be stored in an ice chest, which could sit on her deck in the cold air until stuffing time. 

"I don't want a turkey in an ice chest on my deck," she emphatically announced, suggesting that hungry dogs might come along, break into the chest and make off with Butterball just like those Bumpus hounds did in Jean Shepherd's classic story about the Easter ham. 

"I can put duct tape around the lid," I suggested.

That ignited even more indignation from the older of my younger two sisters who, apparently in a holiday spirit, have been putting postings on Facebook lately, suggesting where exactly I might fit in the sister dynamic.

The most recent:  we three are part of a prison gang. and I'm the sister who teams up with Barbara at cracking the security system, while Laurie, Barbara's cell mate, escapes with a bed sheet.  

This time they even added our dear friend Ruthann Nordgaarden who "sucks up to the guards."

I just don't understand why----if we're all a bunch of thugs about to make a prison escape over the river and through the woods before Thanksgiving----that having duct tape on the Butterball ice chest sitting out there on the deck for all the hungry dogs and the public to see should bother Barbara so much.  

Seems to me that if we've gone to jail, we've already diminished any sense of dignity we've spent our entire lifetimes earning.  

A little duct tape to hold the turkey in place isn't gonna harm our public personas THAT much. 

Anyway, Butterball has remained in an untaped ice chest at my house, out of sight from hungry dogs but in the midst of Kiwi in the garage.  

Kiwi is a dignified dog, unlike the Bumpus hounds, which were always hungry and crude as they lived next door to Jean Shepherd's childhood alter ego with their equally disgusting hillbilly family.

Not once has Kiwi gone over to the ice chest to sniff out Butterball.  She's a blue-blood dog, for sure. 

Well, as I said, today is delivery day, and I have a feeling Barbara might be out in the barn when I show up with Butterball, so I have prepared the storage container and will place it on her deck. 

When she comes up from the afternoon barn chores, she'll easily find Butterball as the ice chest has been labeled and secured shut.   

Then, she can continue the turkey transport into the house where the big bird can gradually thaw and get ready for Thursday morning's official stuffing ceremony.

And, speaking of birds, our rare bird is still hanging around near the sliding-glass door. 

Yesterday, a noted local birder called up, reported to me that my friend Terry Gray who lives in Moscow had called him and told him he'd better get on over to the Lovestead.

Rich Del Carlo walked into the house in time to see the Brown Thrasher fly off. He hung around waiting for it to return, but no luck.  I even sowed sunflower seeds on the ground around the feeder. 

This bird is pretty sly and vigilant.  It knows when a crowd shows up, so it hides (and not inside an ice chest). 

When the crowd dies down, the bird comes back and starts foraging on the ground around the feeder.  

I spent some time yesterday afternoon watching and snapping a few far away photos as it swooped in and out from the feeder area.   This morning, it was back.

So, we're hoping the rare bird sticks around.  We've promised that we'll never stuff it inside an ice chest and duct tape the lid shut. 

I hope it believes us. Besides, if I did something like that, that jail bait story with my sisters might come true, and I'd have to ask my friend Ruthann to do some sucking up to get me out in time for Thanksgiving. 

Happy Tuesday from the Lovestead Butterball Transport Center.