I was thinking Marketing might better have been consulted when I first heard that our Thanksgiving dinner was residing at Outhouse Farm in Waddington, New York, but I was undeterred. Nothing was getting between me and a Midget White heritage breed turkey this year—least of all a farm name.
I haven’t been entirely unthinking about the selection of our Thanksgiving bird. It needs to be tasty. It should be wholesome (read: not filled with saline, hormones and antibiotics). I’d like to think it should have had a pleasant life.
As I stacked wood this morning, I was recounting the weekend and counting blessings (and dogs because they kept inserting themselves between me and the woodpile).