holiday fever

So now it seems, instead of experiencing cat syndrome, I have been infected with some ridiculous holiday pathology. A turkey race for the savage among us (this includes me), and tofurkey/tofucks? for those that can resist the "carn"-ival fest.

I've been going crazy in the last few days tyring to figure out just how exactly are you supposed to put a thing like that in the oven and have it come out beautiful. I called my dad's partner up today just to ask him such a question... "do I need a v-tray??? do I have to stick salt in it's butt-crack and sing it lullabies and bath-time songs while it's basting? Thermometer? String?"
It's like I was expecting a fucking baby! But how will I know I'm doing the right thing?

The whole turkey baster metaphor all makes sense to me now.

All Jack had to say in reply to this was:
Ohhhh nooo. You don't need all that. You just stick it in the oven!

Simply said. Well done. And coming from a cook extraordinaire, it gave me confidence in a slap-in-the-face, calm-down kind of way.
When I asked my mother, she had a more shocking answer than I expected. She told me if I buy a butterball (which I did NOT), that I could call the turkey hotline if I had any questions or freakouts. I found this piece of advice a bit jarring. A mother is not supposed to give you sound cooking advice about an age-old tradition by telling you to call the turkey hotline. She's supposed to tell you secrets and things her mother used to do. Though if I'm not mistaken, my grandmother probably would have called a turkey hotline in her day too.
I can just hear it in her cute little bronx accent:
Hellaow! Ehh, my butta bwall is acting up in the oven. I dunnow wheah the thermomata
dissappeeahd.

Okay, now I'm not paying the homage I should to my fore mothers. Of course they know how to cook certain things. But those things I guess have no roots in the turkey kingdom. They're most likely to fall under the brisket and latkes kingdom.