HOLY TURKEY BATMAN!

Back in the spring, I ordered a few turkeys from the feed store. You know, just your average holiday prep in April—because nothing says “long-term planning” like betting on birds you haven’t even seen yet. They didn’t arrive until the first week of June, and I was not pleased. I muttered something about poultry punctuality and fretted they’d still be the size of Cornish hens come Thanksgiving.

Well. Fast forward to August and I started giving them the side-eye every time I walked by the pen. By mid-October, it was less “holiday meal” and more “Jurassic Park reboot.” I swear one of them looked at me like he was planning to eat me.

My husband finally processed them last Saturday, and when we weighed the biggest one, I nearly had to sit down.

THIRTY-NINE POUNDS.

That’s not a turkey. That’s a Thanksgiving-themed linebacker with drumsticks the size of Louisville Sluggers. The others weighed in like runners-up in a strongman competition: 35, 26, and 20 pounds. We’re roasting the 20-pounder tomorrow because that’s the only one that doesn’t require a forklift access to the oven.

The rest are in the freezer. Well, technically on top of the freezer, because I’m still trying to make space inside the freezer. I may have to evict some venison and a few dozen mystery Tupperwares labeled “stew.”

But now I’m faced with a genuine Thanksgiving dilemma:
How do you wrangle a 39-pound turkey into a standard oven without voiding the warranty?

Do I butterfly it with a chainsaw? Strap it to a rotisserie spit and call NASA? I’ve seen smaller roast pigs served at luaus—and they didn’t even need basting every 30 minutes. I’m considering building a turkey sauna out of cinderblocks and duct tape just to fit it in.

Anyway—Happy Thanksgiving from our kitchen to yours. May your stuffing stay inside the bird, may your relatives behave, and may you never, ever, raise poultry large enough to qualify for its own zip code.

The Passing of Our Grandson

On November 11, 2008, our oldest grandson, Zach, passed away at just 16 years old. He had Cerebral Palsy. Of all the things we could say about him—and about the courage and faith of our son and daughter-in-law—her own words from her blog say it best:

“The wheelchair races have ceased at our home. Our oldest son has gone home to be with His Maker. Although we are sad and left to grieve, we recognize the blessing that he is no doubt happier to be released from a life of special needs, tubes, braces, his wheelchair, and the like. He has finished his race and gone on before us. He was one of those 'special' spirits who didn’t come to this Earth to learn, but to teach. Even though he never said a word, he taught by his example—his endurance, stamina, and the way he faced adversity. Many lessons were learned along the way because we were blessed to care for him: lessons of acceptance, gratitude, love, patience, strength, family, faith, and hope. We found that even though life can be hard at times, there is still plenty of Joy in the Journey, and nothing matters more than Faith, Family, and Love. He was truly loved by those who were blessed to know him, and he could laugh with the best of them. His laughter and smiles will be dearly missed. We are better people because he shared our lives. Thank you for the lessons learned—farewell for now. God be with you till we meet again, little buddy.”

Goodbye for now, Zach. We miss you every day and look forward to the time when we’ll be together again.

With all our love,
Grandma Sandy and Grandpa Jim

New Lamb

We had ourselves a little Veteran’s Day surprise this year. Well... maybe not a complete surprise. More like a “Yep, saw that coming” kind of surprise.

Back in mid-June, Bruce—the ram—decided to go full Romeo and busted through a 4-foot livestock fence supported by metal posts. Not exactly a small feat, but then again, rams are nothing if not determined when romance is in the air.

Now, knowing Bruce as we do, we figured he wasn’t launching an escape mission just for the joy of it. Rams aren’t wanderers; they’re opportunists. And sure enough, the next morning we found him being... let’s say... very attentive to Sweetpea, a lovely, dark gray Columbia/Rambouillet cross who clearly caught his eye—and possibly his nose—from across the field.

Bruce was promptly returned to his own pasture, and we reinforced the fence with electric wire on his side to curb any future Casanova stunts. And for a while, all was calm. But as many a parent of a teenager can tell you: it only takes one night of passion to create a long-term commitment.

Fast-forward five months, and just as we’re settling into November and the last of the leaves are dropping, bam—a new lamb arrives. In freezing temperatures, of course. Because no one ever delivers conveniently on a 60-degree afternoon with sunshine and iced herbal tea.

Cue the emergency setup. Out came the 250-watt heat lamp, casting its glowing red spotlight on our new little oops. And just like that, we were back to our favorite springtime sport—watching the electric meter spin like it’s training for the Olympics.

Sweetpea is doing fine, baby is adorable, and Bruce… well, he’s been strutting around like he’s responsible for the Second Coming of Sheepdom.

Moral of the story? Love breaks fences, timing is everything, and sheep don’t care what month it is as long as the mood is right.

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