In Jean Shepherd’s A Christmas Story, Mr. Parker (the “old man”) is purported to have a wild love for turkey that is unsurpassed by any other person’s avian affections.

I beg to differ, for I love turkey more than life itself. My mouth begins salivating for that damnable bird weeks before Thanksgiving. I imagine it perfectly browned, stuffed to bursting, as moist as can be, and slathered in gravy.

As soon as we purchase a 20-pounder and it’s ensconced safely within the confines of the fridge, I frequently look in on it, sometimes stopping to caress its bumpy, half-thawed skin. Oh God, the turkey.

I do not mind sticking my hands deep within a cold turkey’s butt because it is a labor of love. I do not mind rubbing its cold skin with butter and salt and pepper, because I long for it. All I can think about is the final product, the delicious, juicy fruit of my labor.

The waiting is the worst. This year we had a twenty-two pound turkey that necessitated four hours of cooking, and it was pure hell for me. The house filled with the delicious aroma of turkey, and yet I could not sample the bird for fear of contracting salmonella. Oh, turkey, how you tease.

Finally, it was done, and I removed it from the oven and set it on the kitchen counter. Dear God, it was magnificent. It was huge and steamy and resplendent. Surely our oven had never birthed a more attractive bird.

I began to carve the turkey (we carve ahead of time, thank God, for if I had to wait I would surely collapse from strain), and after removing much of the lesser but still unbelievable dark meat, I removed one of the breasts.

I cannot even begin to express how much I love turkey breast. I could eat it every day for the rest of my life.

I sliced the breast – which was like butter – into neat slices and then slowly, carefully took one for myself. This was the moment of truth.

I brought the turkey to my lips and took a bite.

Truly this was the most savory and wonderful turkey that ever scratched its way through a yard. Obviously this was a turkey of remarkable intelligence and fine breeding. I was almost on the verge of feeling sorry for it when I remembered that I still had half a slice in front of me.

I heard a voice. “STOP EATING ALL THE TURKEY.”

Nothing could stop my love, though. Nothing. I surreptitiously flipped the voice the finger and continued to enjoy my savory bounty.

I finished carving and completed preparing the Thanksgiving meal, and we ate it, and it was remarkably good, and since we always buy too big a turkey, there was a lot of turkey left over.

Oh, how I look forward to this.

I ate turkey the next day for lunch, with cranberries on the side. Then I ate turkey for dinner, drowned in gravy. I ate turkey for lunch on Friday, and then turkey for dinner.

On Saturday I had a turkey sandwich with some candied sweet potatoes. Turkey for dinner. Was I sick of turkey? Not on your life. Yesterday I had a generous plateful of turkey for lunch, with a little stuffing on the side.

I am not even going to mention the brownies and cookies the J-Man and I baked that I have been eating for breakfast every morning. Nope.

It has been a glorious fucking weekend. I have been as happy as a clam, all stoned on tryptophans and comfort food, full-bellied and sleepy and not even needing all the wine I bought.

Then, this morning I weighed myself.

I gained four pounds. Four pounds in four days.

Oh, turkey, you are a cruel mistress indeed. You are a sinuous, delicious siren, and your charms have once again led me down the path of Fat.

Sigh.

So today it’s back to protein shakes and cereal for this girl, and I must ignore the remaining turkey leftovers, as hard as that will be.

I shall miss you, turkey. It’s been amazing.

Happy Monday.

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