Twenty-Five
THE DAYS LEADING UP to Thanksgiving are a whirlwind, beginning Monday morning with the arrival of fifteen pink, plump turkeys from a local turkey farm.
“That’s a lot of turkeys, Bill,” I say as I look at them stuffed into one of the church kitchen’s large refrigerators.
“It takes that many to feed the crowd we usually have,” Bill says. “You remember last year.”
“Yes, I remember the turnout, but Myerton Methodist hosted last year.”
“Right,” Bill nods. “The host church cooks the turkeys, the other churches provide the sides.”
I look at the church’s oven—which is larger than the one in the Rectory, but still seems too small to cook so many. “How do you cook the turkeys?”
“The churches share a smoker,” Bill says. “That takes care of the job really well.”
I shake my head. “Y
