W is for Wild Turkey

Midnight skies, a flock of wild turkeys heard but not seen on the opposing ridge.

Bush hogging the back pasture I startle a flock as they graze, like flying basketballs they lift off with surprising speed and grace. Walking through the woods to feed the hogs and a rustling overhead draws my attention to a dozen roosting in a sycamore. Driving down Possum Trot and I brake suddenly to avoid a large hen and poults. They scurry to join their kin under an oak. Wild Turkeys are everywhere in our valley.

Now I’m walking one fine November day, a week before Thanksgiving, carrying a shotgun, and finding that our intended dinner has removed itself from the landscape.

These sounds at midnight confirm their canny reputation.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Reading this weekend: Provence, 1970: M.F.K. Fischer, Julia Child, James Beard and the reinvention of American taste by Luke Barr. A book about a meeting between these foodies, think Bottle Shocked meets boeuf bourguignonne meets clam chowder.