The Story of Stone Stuffing

On each (U.S.) Thanksgiving Eve, I review the cautionary tale of Turkey McCormick, and contemplate why this is such a lively and bittersweet story, to wit:

Since the time he was young, Turkey McCormick was charged each Thanksgiving Eve with gathering the key ingredient that would constitute the Stone Stuffing that his mother would make on the very next day, which would be like Thanksgiving.

Here’s the recipe and junk:

Stone Stuffing
1 16.7oz stone (granite preferred)
7 loaves of mixed media bread
12 onions, chopped
21 sage leaves
A bunch o’ thyme
4 large chestnuts, roasted and coarsely chopped
.68 gallon of broth from some avian creature, defatted
Assorted cranberries
2 lb butter (melted) Salt and pepper to taste

Heat the oven to the required heat. Rub the stone all over the stuff. Heat in oven until done.

Now you must know that the most important component of this stuffing is the stone. Turkey took great care in selecting the proper stone that would flavorize said stuffing and keep with his family’s tradition of stoning their stuffing alive for the foreseeable future. Turkey knew that the proper stone could only be found on Stone Hill, a roll of uplifted rocky crevices near his domicile just beyond the Forest.

“Now, Spice,” his mother told Turkey one fateful Thanksgiving Eve morning when the first of the fall-to-winter snows began dropping, wisps of white flakes transforming, nay metamorphizing, the once familiar landscape around Turkey’s domicile, “you must be off to the Stone Hill to find the most perfect stone for my stuffing that I will cook (again, in a non-sexist role) for our family. The stone must be good and true like you, my good boy.”

Turkey’s mother always called him “Spice.”

Turkey was unsure if his nickname was due to his surname’s similarity with the well-known company that is a major purveyor of seasonings, or if this was due to the nature of Turkey’s conception long ago on another Thanksgiving Eve when the sherry had overfilled his mother’s glass as she lazed on her left side on her grandmother’s klein, her form-fitting cream-colored flowing silk robe hugging her body’s curves in the shimmering light of a lone candle, the flickering light setting her smooth skin aglow, and…well like I said, Turkey really didn’t want to know details.

Turkey left his mother’s abode, heading through a well-worn deer trail into the Forest. A hush was over the woods, the snow come down in silence. After an interval, Turkey emerged from the Forest and begin the climb up the rocky crags of Stone Hill. He knew the special stone spot, just near the summit, but not ON the summit as summit rocks were weather bare and lacked the proper taste.

A momentary bolt of sunlight shot down from a fleeting gap in the clouds. Turkey saw it! The Perfect Stone!

“I must get this stone!” he strategized aloud.

He reached and reached and reached for the stone, his fingertips touching the cold granite. He had to extend his arm even farther (and further!) to grasp the Wonton Object of Cooking Joy when, due to his rock lust, the tower of stone strength under him gave way.

And down went Turkey, stone and all.