Do I have a choice? Really?  I mean, how would my mother react if I informed her that from here on out  we wouldn't be eating turkey on Thanksgiving?   Well, I'll tell you.  There'd be no initial response. There'd be a pause.  Maybe a few minutes…maybe a few days.  Then she'd suck her teeth, squinch up her left eye like she'd just sucked a lime and nod at me.  This nod can clearly be interpreted as, "Oh okay.  You wanna play like that?  You wanna play like THAT??  Mm Hm.  Okay, then."

Then she'd leave.   Upon her departure, the unease would creep in and wrap itself around my throat like one of those scratchy handmade scarves my Aunt Linda used to give me every year for Christmas.  I'd try to shake off this unease.  But it'd no doubt stick to me like stink on a hog.  Around Halloween she'd probably start calling and leaving messages.

"April.  I'm going to forget about your complete and total lapse of good sense last year and let you know that Thanksgiving will at MY house this year."

I'd make a juvenile comment like, "Yeah, that's what YOU think."

A few days later she'd call back.

"April.  I realize you're trying to assert your faux sense of independence here, and I've had just about enough of it.  Okay?  Enough.  Your Uncle Elmer will be here this year with his new lady friend and I don't want you showing up again wearing your 12 year old sweatpants.  Please.  Enough of the shame."

A quick glance at the calendar lets me know that in a day or two, I'm going to have to make a choice.  To be or not to be a recipient of my mama's last will and testament.  Still.  I'm holding strong to my No-Turkey stance.  She hasn't broken me down.  Not yet.

Three days before Gobble Day, she leaves a Cruella Deville-ish message that flash-freezes my bone marrow.

"April.  Now you hear this.  You remember that time you got sick in the back of the station wagon on our way to Wyoming?  And Daddy had the camera rolling?  Remember?  You were 16…had vomit all down the front of your shirt…in your hair.  Yeah.  Well, I have a YouTube account and my finger is hanging like a spider over the "Enter" key.  If you're not here by the time your Daddy says grace, it's over with.  You hear me?  OVER WITH!"

So.  Of course there'll be turkey.   I have a reputation to protect and defend and I'm not going out with puke on my shirt.  I'm too cool for that.