I was sure that the Turducken was a figure entrenched in lore, used as a tool for people to satirically demonstrate the proud American tradition of over-consumption, or for Frank Caliendo to make fun of John Madden with. And only now do I see that this was not the case, and people actually prepare this monster. Imagine my horror.

This is the first Thanksgiving my family has spent without directly interacting with extended family (this is what I am thankful for), and this means that I was volunteered to help cook dinner with my mother.

Let me just say this: I am a a baker; not a cook. On past Thanksgivings, I'd be the one amongst my immediate family to offer a pie to whichever family member was hosting Thanksgiving, since we'd need about six for my assorted extended family to choose from and everyone pitched in on that regard. My grandparents and great-grandparents were Catholic; there was a lot of family. But now that my mother, father and I are about 1,500 miles away from the nearest relative, we no longer had the luxury of loitering at someone else's house and buying their dinner-making slave labor with pies.

"You can finally learn how to make the turkey!" My mother exclaimed, her eyes alight with glee. Thanksgiving is my mom's holiday, and she takes her business quite seriously. And I was thus roped into preparing a thirteen-pound animal for consumption, and very unaware of exactly was expected of me. Like I said, I am a baker. I don't know jack about legitimate cooking. And my mom decided to take advantage of this and did what any good employer does, and gave the newbie the shit job.

Allow me to introduce myself by my new title. Colleen O'Connor: Turkey Fister.

"You just want to get up in there and pull out the giblets," my mother said. "Nice and deep."

"Mom, this reminds me of a certain job most parents would be mortified to see their child holding."

I don't know if you've ever pulled someone's neck out of their ass, but I can now say in complete truthfulness that I have. Imagine Julie Andrews hitting that last glorious high note in "Sing Noel" as a horrified twenty year-old in her pajamas holds up a dripping bag of bloody viscera for the whole world and a begging cat to see. And my mother is applauding the carnage and telling me to get the thing into a pot so I can get started on the stuffing.

Happy Thanksgiving, folks.