Mom asks if I have a name for the turkey. I’ve been trying to come up with one since I started the brine earlier in the week, but nothing has stuck.
“How about Julius?” mom asks.
“Like Julius Caesar.”
“Did someone betray this turkey?”
“Not that I know of,” mom says.
Then mom reconsiders.
“Well… he probably pissed somebody off to end up like this.”
So apparently I’ve come here not to bury or praise Caesar, but to roast him.