I was sleeping in a bit, seeing as how this is a holiday, and it's a been a long snowy week, and my husband is finally home from deer hunting, and I don't have to leap up to let an old dog out or bring the hens water, when the the phone rang. My husband who had been awake, as he always is, since about 4:30, sorting and cleaning his hunting gear, answered it and then hollered up the stairs that it was for me. What the heck, I was sleeping. Turns out it was our son, the 22 year-old snowboarding anthropologist who just got hired to wash dishes in a cafe at a Washington ski area. He wants to know how to cook a turkey. I sit up, smiling. Amazed. "Is it thawed?" He says it is. I tell him to roast it at 15 minutes a pound at 325, rub it with butter, or olive oil or any cooking oil he might have and set some foil loosely on top. "It's easy." He asks about stuffing. I said be sure to take out the neck and the little packages of giblets and rinse the cavity out well before filling it up. Should I tell him to brown sausage and bake a pan of corn bread? Does he have fresh rosemary? He says he has a package of stuffing mix. I say that's perfect, and tell him to add celery and onion, if they have any in the house he's sharing with about a ten friends, and follow the directions on the box, except ignore the part about trussing. "You don't need to sew up the bird, stick a heel of bread over the hole." I could hear his friends and housemates in the background, laughing and talking. We wished each other a happy Thanksgiving-- and it worked. When I hung up I was happier than I'd been since the dog died. It was all I could do not to laugh out loud. I have apparently raised the boy right. My son. Cooking a turkey for his friends on Thanksgiving. Really, it's better than having him here. There is a saying that you need to give your children roots and wings. You don't need to be a poet to see what a perfect metaphor for that cooking your first Thanksgiving turkey is.