My Mom, on the other hand, is a kitchen witch. She can make a perfect turkey, seemingly only by talking to the bird while she cooks it. Every turkey's name is Thomas, and he's treated like the guest of honor. She claims it works on the same principles as playing classic music to encourage plants to grow.

I personally think houses should come with hot running gravy, perhaps in a tap on the sink.

The real question is whether or not I can help my Mom make a turkey without poisoning the family. Because nothing says Thanksgiving like a mass trip to the emergency room.