My Hunt for a Pedigreed, Antibiotic-Free, Meth-Free, Totally Free Turkey

A few weeks ago, I began pondering where to buy a turkey. Like all grocery shopping, this once straightforward domestic routine has lately changed for me into an ethical and economic quagmire. The calculus that now accompanies each trip to the supermarket is depressing; every decision feels wrong. If I buy the cheap milk, I'm bankrupting small dairy farmers, enslaving cows, and my son will grow breasts. On the other hand, I'm not absolutely sure he'll grow breasts, and if I buy the local, organic milk, then I’m bankrupting my family. And shouldn't we just drink generic milk and send the savings to Sudan, where people have real problems? These questions revive every time I stand in front of a gallon of milk, sack of coffee beans, or piece of farmed salmon. It's boring, nerve-wracking, and almost makes me hate food. It certainly makes me hate the supermarket.

Thanksgiving shopping is this quandary writ large and symbolic. A local farm known for its humane practices and environmental sensitivity had been advertising heritage turkeys—old-fashioned breeds that, unlike factory farmed birds, can mate unassisted and fly. According to the farm's Web site: "Their flavor is spectacular, the meat succulent and rich -- they are, without a doubt the best tasting turkeys you'll ever eat." The price is $6.89 per pound and I need a 15-pounder. I'll do the math: That's a $103 bird.

This gives a person pause, especially a person who has been out of work for a year. Meanwhile, Lucky has been advertising a free turkey with just $99.99 in purchases. In other words, a perfectly edible bird plus stuffing, all the fixings, pie, wine, and after-dinner mints for less than the price of a single heritage turkey. Of course, Lucky's turkeys are flightless Frankenstein birds who have endured sad lives sucking up antibiotics in sordid factory farms. Still, it is tempting.

But I'm trying to be a better person. Since I follow the farm section of Craigslist like other crazy ladies follow QVC, I noticed within minutes when an ad for a live tom turkey popped up one afternoon. Someone was selling a bird for $10 to "a good home or whatever." Or whatever. I promptly called to reserve this turkey who had spent his happy life waddling around with goats and chickens on a small farm. We'd house the turkey in our yard for a few weeks, treat him royally, then slaughter him. My daughter rolled her eyes, my husband rolled his eyes; my 9-year-old son, Owen, was psyched. Over the next few days, he and I read about turkeys, looked at turkey Web pages, and became generally carried away with the awesomeness of turkeys, who are handsome, varied, and supposedly much smarter than people think.

But when I called to arrange to pick up our turkey, the owner had changed his mind, perhaps after pricing his own Thanksgiving feast. What a blow. We wanted a turkey. By expanding my search on Craigslist, within five minutes I'd tracked down a $35 bird in an unfamiliar Central Valley town several hours away. No trip is too far when you have a turkey in your sights. I printed out driving directions and we got in the car.

"People always think a farm is a green place with a tractor running through it," Owen remarked as we surveyed the mangy patch of land abutting some railroad tracks. "It's not always like that. This farm is not the classic." No, it was not. This farm was strewn with junked cars and rusted car parts, overturned boxes of trash, empty liter soda bottles, crushed cans, and downed trees, and through this Wall-E [2] wasteland wandered dozens of chickens, cats, dogs, and three bloated, broad-breasted white turkeys—the standard factory breed. The proprietor ambled through the debris and grabbed up a fat, hiccuping bird which he placed in a laundry bin in the back of our car. "You gonna—?" he made a throat-slashing motion and grinned. I gave him cash. The turkey may well have ingested STP, Mountain Dew, and crystal meth, but I remain confident that she was never polluted by an antibiotic.

We loved her instantly, perhaps because she was such a tragic figure. If a turkey could get a bad boob job, smoke a pack a day, and drink three martinis with every lunch, she would resemble this wheezing, sclerotic bird. From supporting the weight of an oversized breast, her scrawny, scaly legs were bowed and she staggered and lurched. Moreover, separated from her companions, she showed signs of depression. She barely ate, we couldn't get her to drink, and she spent her days in one corner of the yard, staring at a fence post. It seemed terribly wrong that her life should end this way.

A real farmer would have shrugged. But I'm a fake suburban farmer and announced my intention to find her a companion for her final weeks, in part to alleviate her woe, in part, because having a turkey was so freaking cool that I wanted another. My parents called to say that they really hoped I'd stop with "this whole turkey thing." Apparently, backyard chickens are cute and trendy; turkeys are creepy and redneck.

There might be something to this. Owen and I went to collect our second turkey—after dark, as directed—from a farm that could have been the setting of a horror movie, complete with boarded-up house, profoundly eccentric proprietor, and a ramshackle barn crammed to the rafters with squawking poultry. This turkey was, however, truly stunning—slender and nimble, with a long, velvety neck and mottled dark feathers. I handed over $40 cash and we drove away as fast as we could.

This second turkey is far too handsome for his pudgy, clumsy bride, but they have bonded. The heritage bird runs very fast around the yard first thing in the morning, flapping his wings and trilling musically while the factory-bred girl stands there, calm and blinking. They nuzzle each other, and when one moves out of sight, the other whimpers. How can I kill one or even both of them when they're just settling into their marriage, into their new home? Can't. As I type, it's Nov. 23, I've spent $75, driven all over northern California, and I still don't have a damned turkey.