“What’s that?” I ask wide-eyed, peeking over the stovetop on my tiptoes. I inspect the bird from a variety of angles, unblinking. A turkey, but bigger. Perhaps even, stretched, and deformed in some places. I play the scene from Alien where a writhing space monster explodes from a man’s chest, over in my head. I back off quickly, hands up in a defensive karate chop position. It remains still. Giving it the once over, I cautiously lower my arms.
           “It’s a Turducken, for Thanksgiving.” My dad slides a recipe across the tabletop. I read the first line of description.

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