What Brought Me Here--Part II

Four people ordered turkeys for Thanksgiving and didn’t pick them up.  Burt has been brining them in brown sugar, salt, and water.  Today we will smoke them.  Burt says that if there’s any left by 5 o’clock, I’ll get to take one home. 

            I realize that this is a really dangerous trade I’ve taken up, and I’m not just referring to the minute cuts I constantly have on my hands from all the knifework—though I have gotten myself pretty good a time or two.  I have several scars up my forearms from getting burned by my oven at home . . . I get hot ash in my eyes from lighting the smoker at the shop . . . the oil from peppers gets into the pores in your hands if you don’t wear gloves while chopping them . . . onions sting your eyes with tears . . . on a stovetop there is spice; there is flame; there is fire.  And the array of implements one can use to manipulate food runs a gamut bizarre enough to make a professional dominatrix jealous.