Back in our traveling days, one year we decided to spend Thanksgiving in Plymouth, Massachusetts. We loved going to Plymouth during the warmer months to visit the Mayflower and Plimouth Plantation and thought nothing could be better than spending Thanksgiving there.
We arrived on Wednesday evening and found the weather to be a bit sharper than it had during earlier visits. (Ocean breezes in summer tend to be more pleasant than ocean breezes in winter in the northeast.) On Thanksgiving, we were more than ready for a big turkey dinner. Restaurant #1 did not serve turkey. Restaurant #2 did not serve turkey. Restaurant #3 did not serve turkey. By the time we arrived at Restaurant #4, we were becoming desperate. Again, no turkey. And the maitre 'd explained that the only way to eat turkey in Plymouth that day was to go to the town-sponsored dinner; there was a gentlemen's agreement that the restaurants would not compete with the town. At that point, we were too tired and weak to move on so we ate steak for Thanksgiving----in Plymouth, of all places.
By the time we returned home on Sunday evening, I was craving leftover turkey. I wanted my husband to pull over so I could run up to an unsuspecting homeowner. With my finger in my pocket, I would shout, "Your leftover turkey or your life!" My husband wouldn't stop.
At work the next day, I told the story to my co-workers. One of them invited us to dinner the following weekend. We sat down to a full-blown turkey dinner. It was the best turkey I ever ate.
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