A few weeks earlier I’d been given directions to a local farm that had turkeys for sale. Mark and I went one weekend to check the place out.
We knocked on the farmhouse door; a plump woman in her sixties—every inch the typical farmer’s wife—answered. We explained that we wanted a turkey about ten pounds in weight, and asked her if she could accommodate our needs.
“Of course, my dears,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron. “Come with me.”
She led us to one of the outbuildings at the other end of the farmyard. I could hear the noise of turkeys getting ever-louder as we neared a particularly large and rundown barn. She ushered us inside and closed the door behind us. The noise, smell, and chaos inside were indescribable.
She shouted above the din. “Do you want to pick one out?”
Su
