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.