My Great Aunt Edna, from the Yaak, lacked culinary skills. She lived up in Montana, all alone in them, there hills.
Last winter Edna sent an invitation to her kin. Her invite claimed she’d learned to cook. Was Edna sipping gin?
She said she’d corresponded with a chef from Paris, France. And she’d like to serve a feast if we would give her this one chance.
I cornered my physician. Would he lie and claim I’m ill? But Doc said, “That’s unethical.” Should’ve shown him my last bill.
No single other kin was going to drive to Yaak that day. My heart was feeling heavy for old Edna, in a way.
I looked at Hap. He gave a bark and then he shook his head. He’d tasted Edna’s table scraps. I bet Hap thought, “I’m dead!”
But when a man is dying, maybe poisoned in the end. I’d say it is a privilege to go out with man’s best friend.
So, Hap and I drove up the Yaak. We knocked on Edna’s door. She yanked us in. That’s when I noticed feathers on her floor.
I’m not the sharpest fellow, but a turkey came to mind. The smell of burning feathers, yes, a turkey’s what we’d find.
I offered grace but didn’t really get a chance to say. “Please bless this food, and by the way, don’t let us die today.”
The biscuits were a golden brown, but hard and extra heavy. The turkey was so tough I bet she had to grind the gravy.
I’d have to say that Edna’s cooking hadn’t changed a bit. ‘Cuz if you were a dinner guest you had to have some grit.
But one fine thing ‘bout Edna, at the end of every day. She serves her turkey from a flask. “Wild Turkey” you could say.