The year my boys were two and five, I decided to follow my mother’s example and use the turkey carcass to make soup. What a great idea, right? I simmered the carcass for hours in a huge stainless pot. By then it was pretty late, and since I was too exhausted to do anything more, I put the pot in the extra refrigerator in the basement. And forgot about it.
Weeks later, realizing the "soup" was now aswirl with deadly organisms, I transferred the pot to the cold garage. And forgot about it again. Until the spring thaw.
Having no clue how to dispose of the lethal brew without slaughtering innocent animals—or people (could water treatment really neutralize what were probably deadly undiscovered toxins?)—I carried the pot outside and stuck it under a tree at the back of our property until I could figure out how to safely make it go away. Out of sight, out of mind.
Come summer, the pot with its murderous contents was still there. My husband got rid of it, expensive pot and all. I never asked how.
Holidays bring back memories—the ones we’d rather forget, the ones that make us laugh, and the ones that touch our hearts.
What are your favorite Thanksgiving memories—the good, the bad, or the ugly?
On behalf of all the
Writers Who Kill,
we wish you a very