Chicken Truck

While most of the country is thawing their bargain priced turkeys in the fridge (if you aren't yet, you should start right away) or heading to the farm to pick the perfect organic bird; my daughter is losing sleep. Never mind Halloween, Thanksgiving is her idea of a pagan holiday.

Upon seeing any photos or books that reflect the "feast" we often hear:

"I hate Thanksgiving and everything about it!" she declares. "I mean, I am thankful for things; but I really, really hate it! What do dead animals have to do with being thankful?!!!"

We quickly change the subject and remember the days when we dreamt of sharing fois gras with our first born child on the french countryside, listening to her describe her first sautern. We had a long list of the fine dining experiences we would share with her; introducing her to the glories of a buttery pinot noir and veal cheeks cooked to perfection.

But alas, while we watch our dining dreams transform to a lovely vegan restaurant in Berkely; Lily is slowly learning to read and write for the sole purpose of designing custom picket signs to display anywhere animals have been killed and later eaten.

It was only a matter of time until her eyes gazed upon the many chicken trucks (school is only blocks away from a con agra factory) zooming around us as we carol and laugh our way to school. It is all too common that I take unexpected detours in order to avoid a sighting of my daughter's version of a living hell.

"Why are you going this way?" her directionally perceptive self inquires.

"Oh, I just wanted to see if this way was faster, " or code for intentionally being late to school in order to avoid you laying eyes on a semi truck packed with steroid filled, force-fed, white birds being brought to the slaughter...and your personal implosion.

Mid-way through a chorus of Dolly's Travellin' Through, I was distracted by my mini-female vocalist in the back seat and turned around to share the performance (at a stop light, of course). No number of duets and pretend microphones could have helped me avert her eyes from the monster of a chicken truck crossing directly in front of us.

Like pulling the plug on a bad lip-synced concert; there was silence.

"WHAT IS IN THAT TRUCK?" she asked with bulging eyes and the deepest note she could reach at the young age of 5 years and 11 months.

"Birds," I quietly reply while stumbling for an answer that would be truthful and yet somehow derail the pending meltdown that could ruin her for days.

"TURKEYS???!!!"

"No, I think they might be chickens."

"ALIVE OR DEAD?" as her face reddens and I can feel her heavy breathing in the front seat.

"Oh, they are alive, definitely alive," owning the idea that half-truths are totally fair game when there is only one traffic guard between us and the carpool line.

"SHEW," she sighed as she picked up her pretend microphone and finished the last bars of our song. I could sense her blood was cooling, but I could almost hear her little animal activist gears turning....WHY WOULD YOU CRAM A BUNCH ON CHICKENS IN A TRUCK AND DRIVE THEM OFF THE INTERSTATE AND INTO A FACTORY THAT OFTEN LEAVES A STENCH SO HORRIBLE YOU CAN'T EVEN EAT ICE CREAM WITHIN A FIVE MILE RADIUS?

"We're here!" I proclaim to try and break her thought process.

As she collects her things and gives me the wettest kiss I will ever except from a female; I think to myself the opening line of so many Thanksgiving family meals of my past:

"What are you thankful for, Becky?"

This year, I am thankful for DODGING THE CHICKEN TRUCK BULLET, even if it is only for today.