I've been fascinated by turducken ever since I first heard such a delicacy wasn't just the stuff of urban legend. It sounded like comfort food for Doctor Frankenstein. And ever since I've been dying to try it.
One day I spotted two boxes stamped "TURDUCKEN" in the freezer section of one of our local Publix supermarkets. Each time I shopped there I'd check that freezer to see how fast this particular stock was moving. And each time I saw two boxes. It could have been the price tag, which also never moved.
I personally was never tempted to splurge on one of those crates. For one thing, I need a picture on the packaging of any food product I buy. I don't care how misleading or downright fraudulent it is, my imagination needs help putting that meal on my plate. For another, I'm not spending $80 on generic meat. If I plop a white box with bold black lettering on the checkout counter, it had better be half the price of brand name turducken. Or less. Before coupons.
One day the turducken crates were gone. I imagined some big spender fanning $160 as he proudly purchased everything required for a quadruple meat party for fifty. An even happier idea was the probability we'd passed the expiration date and imagining the beneficiary of that dumpster dive.
I once watched Paula Deen whip up a turducken in between commercial breaks ("You need to really involve your butcher on this one.") right in front of her panic-stricken pet cockatiels with time to spare for a poker game. That was the day I realized even the Food Network offers nothing more than pure escapist fantasy, same as Disney, Lifetime, Fox News and the History Channel.
But I have all the confidence in the world that Stevie can stuff a spectacularly succulent tri-foul. Only 21 days left to prepare and I need to get busy... I have no idea what to wear to a bird orgy.