"I don't massage 'em," Murphy grunted, hoisting a heavy, broad-breasted bird onto the scale. "But they’re fresh-killed this morning from the valley. No brine, no injections, no nonsense. Just a bird that lived outside and ate well. That’s where the flavor is. In the life it had, not the oil you rub on it."
Arthur’s search began at , a boutique butcher shop where the floors were dusted with fresh sawdust and the prices required a small personal loan. The butcher, a man named Silas who wore a leather apron like armor, spoke in whispers. where to buy the best turkey for christmas
Arthur considered it. A relaxed turkey sounded lovely, but at eighty dollars a bird, he felt the turkey should also be able to drive him home. "I don't massage 'em," Murphy grunted, hoisting a