First, I would like to wish a happy turkey week to all Crescent readers. This week I am going to spin tales of turkeys past.This year will be my 28th Thanksgiving, and I am not responsible for any of the food. I simply get to show up and enjoy the family.As I child I never really liked Thanksgiving. You didn’t get much time off school, there aren’t any cool songs to sing, you don’t get a new dress for church, no presents, just a big meal with family.In addition, the big meal always and still does cause problems for me because I tend to be a fussy eater.Growing up, I would have a hot dog and Jell-O for Thanksgiving dinner. This fact would irritate everyone around me, especially my grandmothers who had slaved for days to make a picture-perfect feast.I have never really eaten birds of any kind. When I was very young, my grandpa had a pet chicken that pretty much lived in their house. I blame this pet on my aversion to eating things that once had feathers.So, as the feast begins, my relatives (who never seem to remember the aforementioned fact) begin questioning the bareness of my plate."Why don’t you have any turkey?""What is wrong with the stuffing?""Do you know how long it took to make that rice casserole?"As I grew and my grandmothers passed away, my mother took pity on me and would make a roast beef alongside the ham or turkey for holiday dinners, but I would always try a tiny piece of turkey – just to please my father.This made for less awkward trips to the holiday buffet counter, until I became an adult.My first Thanksgiving without my family was spent at the home of my future in-laws, and they were serving duck and turkey.As I left the safety of my college apartment to board a plane bound for Maryland, I knew I was in trouble. Here was a whole new batch of people to explain my strange eating habits to.They pretended to understand the problems I had with turkey and duck, but were blown away when I didn’t eat either the pumpkin or the apple pie for dessert.I can’t explain why I don’t appreciate a good pie; it is just not my thing.The second Thanksgiving without my family, David and I were newly married and decided to cook a feast for our family-less college friends.We had gotten a free turkey for spending tons of money at a local grocery store in Texas, and although I didn’t plan to eat the bird, I knew we had to serve one at our Thanksgiving feast.We heard an interesting recipe on a morning talk show. It entailed putting the bird, covered with olive oil, salt and a touch of pepper, into a paper sack. That sounded easy enough, and it meant I wasn’t going to have to touch the turkey.Thinking we were smart hosts, we moved the turkey from the freezer to the refrigerator the day before our big meal.The next morning when we pulled the bird from the fridge to begin smothering it in oil, we found it to be just about as solid as it had been the day before.Moments later, we made the first of half a dozen calls to our mothers.The bird went into a cold bath of water in the sink. There it sat until we had to put in into the oven. Our guests were not going to want to eat at 10 p.m. when they were told dinner would be served at six.During one of the conversations with our mothers, we were warned that we would need to remove a bag of stuff from the turkey before we put it in the oven.I volunteered my husband for this job. I was not going to put my hand inside this carcass and fish around for a bag of organs. Because it was still quite frozen, removing this bag turned into a giant task.David could feel something he thought was plastic near the back of the cavity, but it would not come loose. After awhile I tried, too. My body was overcome with goose bumps and I think I screamed a bit, but no luck.We tried cutting it out with a knife, we tried going in from behind – nothing worked. Another call, this time to my mother.She told us not to worry about it, just get the turkey in the oven as soon as possible.After that conversation, we felt good again. We bagged the bird and slid the roasting pan into the oven.Then we happily played Thanksgiving for the next few hours. We set a beautiful table using the dishes we had gotten for our wedding, we cooked side dishes, we watched football and our guests arrived on time with more food.When the buzzer went off, I pulled that turkey out and opened the paper bag to see that the little red circle had not popped out. I didn’t care. We had cooked it for the designated time and perhaps the red popper broke while we were poking the inside with a knife. I announced the turkey was done and about to be carved.David grabbed one of our new wedding knives and made the first incision.That bird was still pink inside.I could have died. In fact, one guest fainted, falling into the turkey and the bowl of gravy.So the bird went back into the oven, this time without a bag and at a much higher temperature. By the time we had washed the gravy from my guest’s hair, the turkey was done and people were eating.I didn’t try any turkey that day, not even a bite.I pledged to my husband that we would never again cook a turkey. That would be the job of my aunts, mother, mother-in-law or my sister. I will never stick my hand inside a frozen bird – never. Story ideas or comments can be emailed to Lexi Moore at lexim@star-herald.com or called in at 962-3561.