For Thanksgiving, it’s a fowl choice for Mrs. Hooper
Which turkey will be the feast centerpiece? Will it be Kevin? Little Man?
WALLER COUNTY — Renee Hooper sat on her porch the morning before Thanksgiving, trying to ignore what was happening in her yard.
She normally would have sipped her coffee there, chatting with her four favorite turkeys as they serenaded her with gobbles.
But she didn’t want to say goodbye. It had been up to her to choose which one they’d take to her brother’s house in Wallis for their Thanksgiving meal.
They had eight turkeys total. Her favorite four were the right age, the right size, to feed the family.
Renee, 52, had been losing sleep, knowing one was going to be killed.
She was captivated by their first turkey, Bronzeson, with his shiny black back feathers, his patterned brown tail. He was beautiful, she said.
“Dad says he’s going to be beautiful in the oven,” her 12year-old son Danny quipped.
They got more turkeys not long after buying him: Big Daddy, Little Man and Mama, who kept to herself. And Kevin.
She’d known one of them would probably have to go. But still.
Her husband, Johnnie, 60, thought she might not be able
“Y’all safe ’til next year.”
Renee Hooper, reluctant executor — but not executioner — of which turkey will make for the family dinner
to do it. He’d eyed the frozen turkeys at the grocery store just in case.
But she’d given him a name and, the night before, a nod.
It is a ritual all over the Houston area ahead of the holiday, among farmers and hobbyists alike. Turkey “processing,” some call it. Others are more sentimental.
The Hoopers had eaten rabbits they raised, and chickens.
But the turkeys liked her. They puffed up their feathers around her, showing off. They defended against strangers such as the electrician.
They followed her together like little clouds around the 20-acre Waller County property where they live with a whole array of animals — dogs, chickens, pigs, ducks, horses, cows, a tortoise.
The birds pecked at the window if she was in the dining room. When she talked to them, they gobbled back. Sometimes one jumped in the side-by-side utility vehicle with her to ride around.
How could she pick one to kill? Bronzeson had been the start of it all. She found him on Craigslist, maybe a year and a half ago and they drove to get him near Conroe. It was clear by the time they got home that he would be a pet, not dinner.
“Do Little Man,” her 13-year-old daughter, Haley, suggested in the yard Tuesday evening, where, presumably, the birds couldn’t understand what she said. “Or Kevin.” “No, not Kevin,” Renee said. “He doesn’t show anything,” Haley argued, pointing out how he rarely puffed up his feathers.
“He does for me,” she said.
Here was the breakdown: Big Daddy was dominant. He circled and rubbed against Renee.
Little Man was sweet. She gave him medicine by mouth and cuddled him when he was sick.
Bronzeson was quiet and liked to show off his feathers.
Kevin, not yet fully accepted by the others, went about life largely unpuffed.
In the choice of who to eat, working against Big Daddy and Little Man was the fact both were bourbon red turkeys, their feathers matching the auburn color of Renee’s hair.
Bronzeson was a Narragansett, and Kevin a blue slate.
“Y’all coming?” Renee called to the birds Tuesday night as she went to feed the animals.
The poultry made their little puffing noises and plodded behind.
Johnnie, her husband, drank a beer. He didn’t see a chance of getting Big Daddy or Bronzeson on the Thanksgiving table.
He pointed at Little Man. “That one,” he said. “I’ve got a chance.”
“We’re getting one of those right?” he asked about the everpresent turkey clan of four. Renee gave a nod. “That’s the best you’re going to get,” she said. “Just a little bob of the head.”
Haley crouched and caught Little Man.
Johnnie, who works in oil field sales, picked him up by the feet. He was heavier than expected.
“You going inside?” Haley asked her mom, who hurried in the front door.
Johnnie slipped the bird’s head into the hole in the bucket attached to the tree. Little Man’s feet stuck out of the top.
Minutes passed. From inside the house, Renee heard nothing.
Haley came inside to keep her mom company and then hollered to her dad: “Are you done?” “Well, yeah,” her dad replied. Renee came out and flipped her husband, well, the bird.
She squatted next to Bronzeson, Kevin and Big Daddy and smiled.
Then she walked over to where her husband plucked Little Man’s feathers, loosened by the hot water.
Her remaining birds, as usual, shadowed her.
“Y’all safe ’til next year,” she told them.