Next, he drove forty miles out to . The owner, a woman named Martha whose face was as lined as a topographical map, led him to a field.
"I don't massage 'em," Murphy grunted, hoisting a heavy, broad-breasted bird onto the scale. "But they’re fresh-killed this morning from the valley. No brine, no injections, no nonsense. Just a bird that lived outside and ate well. That’s where the flavor is. In the life it had, not the oil you rub on it." where to buy the best turkey for christmas
On Christmas Day, as the skin turned a mahogany brown and the scent of sage filled the house, Arthur realized the secret. The "best" turkey wasn't about the price tag or the marketing; it was about finding someone who treated the process with a bit of respect. Next, he drove forty miles out to
Arthur considered it. A relaxed turkey sounded lovely, but at eighty dollars a bird, he felt the turkey should also be able to drive him home. "But they’re fresh-killed this morning from the valley
For Arthur, the quest for the Christmas turkey was a solemn, annual pilgrimage. He didn’t want a supermarket bird wrapped in plastic that tasted like "refrigerated sadness." He wanted the legend.