Le Turkey

Thanksgiving is the worst holiday in all of history. My name is Tiffany Gobbles, and I’m a turkey. Of course, you probably guessed by looking at the first sentence that turkeys hate Thanksgiving. Well, anyway, Thanksgiving is only in a few days—on November 26^th. My sister, Glenda, and I were talking about this, and we made a decision. A decision that could possibly buy me another year of my incredibly dull life. 

“Tiffany, listen,” she said. She motioned me to sit down next to her on the grass. 

“What? You know I’m in a bad mood, Glenda. Thanksgiving is just around the corner,” I said.  

“We must talk!” Glenda sighed. “Do you remember last year’s plan almost got us into the pot of stew?” 

“Do I? I still remember sitting on that burning stove! Pretending to be a pet was clearly the worst idea we’ve ever had. I suppose you have a plan for this year?” 

“Of course, I do, little sister. I hope you didn’t think I am dumb enough to go in someone’s belly. This year, we’ll disguise ourselves. Get a new persona.” 

“That seems too much like last year’s plan,” I teased. “Maybe you are that dumb.” I brushed off some dirt and stared at the scar which I had gotten last year. That lady’s nails were way too sharp. I screamed whenever she picked me up. Hey, I’m no fashion expert, but my advice to her was to buy a nail cutter or something like that. 

“So, what will you be disguised as?” asked Glenda. “I think I’m going to be a doctor.” 

“I’m not sure,” I replied. “But… I know about a new restaurant that opened recently. It’s called Le Croissant.” 

“Nuh-uh. You have got to be kidding. Are you crazy? You’re going to go to a restaurant?” 

“Glenda, I’m going to be fine. I might make it out as the bravest turkey ever.” 

“Yeah, right,” Glenda smirked. “I’m so smart, I can ride a bike. I can even do 1 + 1, which most turkeys like you can’t.” 

“Okay, whatever. I’m going there. And after Thanksgiving Day, you’ll see my beautiful turkey face not covered in gravy.” 

“Sure, sure,” said Glenda as she trotted away. Now I had to do the bravest thing I have ever done—go into the restaurant. I know, right? So scary.  

Well, okay, so I realized I would have to look like a person to go in there. I might look too delicious if I go in a as a turkey. So I stole some clothes from the shopping mall that opened nearby. The saleswoman didn’t even bother because she was trying to convince a person to buy their turkey special. I was afraid that meant me. A little kid saw me and said to her mama that she knew what was for dinner tonight. Luckily, I ran away before the girl could make her evil plans.  

I looked pretty fancy. I had a dress, sunglasses, shoes, and a floppy hat to cover my face. Le Croissant, as you might have guessed, is a French restaurant. When I walked in, I got some funny looks.  

“That dude is so short,” someone said. 

“Yeah, and he’s too fat.” I found this annoying and was going to tell them that I’m a “she,” but I remembered humans eat pretty much anything, including me. They’re on the top of the food chain. One day, I’ll be at the top. I’ll eat everything—besides turkeys, of course. Sure, I’ll eat the restaurant I’m in. What could possibly happen? I started biting a table when I realized I might be too full after a few chairs. Oh right–I came here to work, not to race to the top. I’ll do that later. And I just made a mental note so I don’t forget. 

I went to the back. “May I have a job, sir?” I asked the chef. 

“It depends, kid,” he said. “Are you sure you’ll be able to reach the stove?” 

“I think I can, sir.” 

“Well, then, go. The boss is in the back. Speak to him. It’s not up to me, kid.” He pointed to a door back in the kitchen. 

“Thanks,” I said. I walked in. The boss was a tall man, with brown hair, a mustache, and brown eyes. He had so many freckles that I could barely tell the color of his skin. He wore a fancy suit and was talking on the phone. I’ve always wanted one, but I don’t have the money. Turkeys pay each other in twigs. Maybe he would accept them if I gave him enough. 

“Sir,” I said. “Will you hire me?” The man put down his phone. 

“Yeah,” he said. “But we’ll have to interview you first. See how good you are at cooking.” 

“Okay…” 

“And we’ll give you your outfit, too. Much better than that dishrag you’re wearing. Come along.” 

He took me to a small kitchen. “Cook whatever you want,” he told me. “I’ve got all the materials in the cupboards for you. And I’ve already put a chair here to stand on if you can’t reach something.” 

I was freaking out. I knew nothing about cooking. I decided to experiment anyway. I found eggs, milk, butter, vanilla, sugar, baking soda, and lots of other things. The thing I liked the most were these little chocolate morsels, labeled “chocolate chips.” I mixed them together and got a delicious batter. I put the whole thing in a pan and placed it in the oven.  

A few hours later, it had hardened. Just then, the boss came back and tasted the cake. “Wow,” he said, his mouth full of cake. “A little tough to chew, but absolutely delicious. You’re hired. Not only are you talented, but you are creative with the ingredients.” Yep, I was the one to invent the cookie cake. 

“Oh, thank you,” I said.  

“And what is your name, young lady?” 

“Tiffany… Tiffany Gobbles.” 

“Alright, Miss Gobbles, from this day on, you will work here. Congratulations. Goodbye, now. The waitress, Chloe, will tell you what to cook.” He walked away, dialing a number on his phone. I guess he was recalling his friend he was talking to earlier to tell him I was for turkey dinner, but I figured he wasn’t that cruel. 

I walked over to the main kitchen. A woman came over to me. She handed me an outfit. “Table four would like a turkey stew, please,” she said. 

“Um… okay. Piece of cake!” I said. 

 I walked over to the kitchen. The materials, as before, were found in the cupboards and drawers. I was horrified to see turkey meat in the refrigerator. 

I put together the ingredients the way I had with the cake: dry ingredients first, then the wet ingredients. I threw it into a pot. It smelled okay, I guess. My whole body trembled as I picked up the turkey meat and tossed it into the bubbling liquid inside the pot. I hoped I wouldn’t have to eat it. 

Finally, a few minutes later, the stew was done. I peeked over and looked at someone else’s stew. It looked nothing like mine. I went over and gave it to Chloe. She served it to table four. They put on a disgusted look when they smelled it, but happily ate, licking the bowl and their fingers when they finished. I didn’t know whether to take this as a compliment or as a cruel joke that they wanted to eat more turkey. 

The man at table four raised his hand. “Waitress, come here. I would like to see the chef who made this fine dish.” 

Chloe called me and I nervously walked over to the table. “Gobble!” I spoke. When I’m scared, I start talking in our Gobblish language that turkeys use. 

“It seems like you love turkeys and put your heart into cooking them,” he started. “Thank you for feeding my family this great stew. I’ll tell the boss to give you a raise.” 

“Thank… thank you,” I said. 

“I should be thanking you,” he said. He left after that.  

I spent the next two days cooking my turkey stew, which almost everyone liked. I met with the owner of the restaurant, and he said he would rename the restaurant Le Turkey, and he would give me a big promotion. I also had my picture on the front of the restaurant. I shaved a few feathers off so it wouldn’t look obvious that I could be in someone’s stew one day.  

I made some new friends, too—Chloe the waitress and the boss. He told me his name once, but when he said it, he made a strange noise like Achoo. So I usually call him Mr. Achoo, even though he doesn’t seem to like that name. I even started earning some money, and I offered the boss four dollars for his phone. He refused, but I was proud to be earning some human currency. Each morning, I had to get out of my little turkey cave, put on my clothes, and walk to the restaurant. Unfortunately, I’m not as fast as other turkeys, and that’s bad, because the restaurant is at least three blocks away. The tiring walk could make me into dinner before I even reach the restaurant. 

On Thanksgiving Day, I got hundreds of orders for my turkey stew. But it was the worst day of my life. I was caught with my hat off because I needed to adjust my feathers. A newer chef, Mark, threw me in his boiling pot of stew, clothes and all. My ghost spirit rose above, glaring at him. “This will be delicious,” he chided. 

Later, the boss came to check on Mark. He was shocked when he pulled out my hat. I guess he realized who I had been this whole time, because he said, “Stop! Now! You’re fired. You are a horrible chef, Mark. Out!” Then he grabbed my remains and wrapped them in a white cloth. I silently watched him, stunned. And a little disgusted. I had been shaved to death—literally—in that boiling pot. 

Two weeks later, I found my dead self in a funeral. Lots of people and some turkeys were gathered around the grave, crying. “…and this was a talented and tasty turkey which would’ve gotten eaten. Rest in peace.”  

Glenda rolled her eyes. “Yeah. What beautiful face she has, totally not covered in gravy.” 

How disrespectful, I thought.