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  • I did not break the wishbone because I couldn’t decide which one of us was more deserving to have a wish granted.
    But I cut the meat from the bone and made stock with the turkey carcass.
    I thought of how my grandmother would do this, every year, the day after Thanksgiving. All the children would be in the television room and she would call the girls into the kitchen to learn these traditions. I resented her for making us do the housework when I was a teen, but when I was smaller I would eagerly help her with all of these things. She would pull a step ladder from the closet and my sister would help for a little while and then get bored and want to watch cartoons instead.

    We would spend all afternoon cooking things. Using every part of the bird because you have to. I grew up with this belief in food.
    Deer carcasses hanging from garages in the winter taught me biology.

    My grandmother likes the dark meat more. Wants to cook the heart and liver and eat it. I would watch her in disgust as she would slice a heart open and call it the best part. Liver and onions took on new meanings.

    I picture her as a child in a family of eight during the depression. Part of me wonders if she’s conditioned herself to say this, believing from a young age of growing up with nothing that the scraps of the birds are the best. When I was younger, I would reluctantly eat the white meat if someone passed me mayonnaise, which was a cardinal sin of some sort.

    Now I don’t eat any of it. Won’t even touch it when it’s raw. Called my mother in from the living room to finish the bird before I put "him" in the roaster. I don’t mind seasoning or buttering or brining it. I don’t mind carving it. Pulling the meat from the bones.

    I let the wishbone sit for three days to dry out because it is tradition. Later we will pull it apart and I will make my wish and you will make yours and only one of them will come true.
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