Every holiday has a standard set of calls, and Thanksgiving is no exception. Mornings are for smoked turkey; not the good kind, though. Ovens that haven’t been cleaned in fifteen years or leaving the plastic bag with the gizzard and liver in the bird can impart a pungent flavor as well as bringing out the smoke ejector. This typical run is quickly being overtaken by the more exciting propane fired turkey fryer setting the deck or siding on fire.
Late afternoons bring the EMS runs for the folks sent home from the hospital for the holiday that probably shouldn’t have been. As the day darkens and blood alcohol levels increase, domestics or “I wanted the #($* leg” and stranger incidents take over.
One I still remember was a head-on collision on a quiet tree lined residential neighborhood street; the last place you would expect a wreck like that. It turned out to be two stubborn liquored up kids playing chicken; nobody gave, and they both ended up losing.
Makes me look forward to amateur night for drinkers: New Year’s Eve