|My Mom... with her Mom, tasting the turkey.|
In the beginning, there was toast. The smell wafted up to my bedroom on the morning of the day. The toast would lead to the stuffing and the turkey... and the long games of Scrabble while we watched it cook. My Mom cooked the stuffing INSIDE the bird. We ate it. We lived.
And my fondest memory? Sneaking back into the turkey the next morning, and spellunking for juicy bits of forgotten stuffing between the ribs.