Growing up in upstate New York, I used to wonder why we eat turkey on Thanksgiving. Throughout the year, we’d see all types of animals daily: squirrels and chipmunks scurrying; deer innocently dropping their heads into my mother’s shrubs for a nibble; even the occasional bear, clumsily sifting through our garbage in search of a late-night snack.
But turkeys, it seemed, mostly made their cameos on the cusp of fall (the worst possible time considering their signature party trick). Driving down windy roads, we’d see a cluster of the wild variety dart across the street—a hen leading a pack of small turkey chicks, aka “poults,” or the occasional male turkey, otherwise known as a “tom” or a “gobbler,” bright red waddle and fanned out tail feathers wiggling furiously as he ran to safety.
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