Ghosts of Turkeys Past


The Ghosts of Turkeys Past
You know who you are.
The people who create homemade dressing from homemade bread you have carefully aged and spices you have lovingly preserved. 
The people whose Christmas turkeys seem to leap from the oven golden brown, beautifully basted, tender and juicy.
The people who make dozens of scrumptious cookies, and do them all from scratch and two weeks in advance. 
The people whose homes are tastefully and brightly decorated inside and out with lights, mistletoe and holly. Whose Christmas trees don’t fall over. Whose cards are all sent, whose stockings are joyfully hung and whose presents are all bought or made and already wrapped. 
Bah. Humbug.
I wish to point out that the rest of us real people are currently shifting into Christmas panic mode with only 11 days to go.
We’re the ones trampling seniors and small children in the Walmart aisles in an effort to snag the last Holiday Barbie or Remote Control Flying Shark (really!?). We’re the ones who didn’t pick up the Michel Bublé Christmas CD until it was sold out, and are now wondering if Uncle Louis will actually enjoy Burl Ives Sings Kiddie Pops. We’re the ones whose last minute cookie purchases say “best before War of 1812.” 
We’re the ones whose on-the-run Christmas tree purchase falls off the car roof. Twice. Who discover on December 24 that all last year’s festive tree ornaments were accidentally inserted into the trash compactor along with last year’s festive tree. 
We are the ones currently haunted in our dreams by large, blackened turkeys exclaiming “Why did you put me in an oven at 550 degrees an hour before dinner?” (And dressing is something you do before you go out.) 
But, truth be told, I wouldn’t have it any other way. The real joy of the Christmas season lies in laughter,  and in adventures and misadventures shared. It lies in family and friends and in helping neighbours.
Perfection is way over rated.                        

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