CHARLESTON, W.Va. -- Being the primary chef at this year's Thanksgiving dinner gave me a chance to learn a few new things about the preparation of the bird that Benjamin Franklin sought to make America's national symbol.

Of course, Franklin was thinking of the wily wild turkey, the fast-flying, fleet-footed woodland game bird, when he was lobbying to put the bald eagle out of a job. The cage-dwelling, hormone-swilling, factory farm birds known to most of today's Americans can't fly, can barely trot, and have been known to accidentally smother one another during panic attacks. While they no longer represent the good taste and values needed for consideration as national symbols, they still taste good and represent a decent value at the supermarket.

Since it had been several years since I last officiated at a family T-Day dinner, I had forgotten a few tidbits of turkey prep lore, most notably that the bird's tastefully wrapped innards can be found in both body cavities. I was reacquainted with this fact while attempting to rinse out the bird, only to have it overflow with a gallon or so of frothy pink water before discovering a paper-wrapped giblet plug in the cavity far to the south of the neck.

The bird I bought this year came equipped with a fairly lengthy set of instructions on what to do with an enclosed "turkey litter." While I was pretty sure I didn't want turkey litter anywhere in the vicinity of my Butterball, I read on, and eventually discovered the instructions referred to a knotted string "turkey lifter" which proved to be quite useful.

I was glad I didn't have to place an emergency call to Butterball's toll-free Turkey Talk Line, where my "turkey litter" question could have joined other memorable-but-true dumb questions archived by the turkey processor. They include:

"How do you thaw a fresh turkey?"

"How do you roast a turkey for vegetarian guests?"

CHARLESTON, W.Va. -- Being the primary chef at this year's Thanksgiving dinner gave me a chance to learn a few new things about the preparation of the bird that Benjamin Franklin sought to make America's national symbol.

Of course, Franklin was thinking of the wily wild turkey, the fast-flying, fleet-footed woodland game bird, when he was lobbying to put the bald eagle out of a job. The cage-dwelling, hormone-swilling, factory farm birds known to most of today's Americans can't fly, can barely trot, and have been known to accidentally smother one another during panic attacks. While they no longer represent the good taste and values needed for consideration as national symbols, they still taste good and represent a decent value at the supermarket.

Since it had been several years since I last officiated at a family T-Day dinner, I had forgotten a few tidbits of turkey prep lore, most notably that the bird's tastefully wrapped innards can be found in both body cavities. I was reacquainted with this fact while attempting to rinse out the bird, only to have it overflow with a gallon or so of frothy pink water before discovering a paper-wrapped giblet plug in the cavity far to the south of the neck.

The bird I bought this year came equipped with a fairly lengthy set of instructions on what to do with an enclosed "turkey litter." While I was pretty sure I didn't want turkey litter anywhere in the vicinity of my Butterball, I read on, and eventually discovered the instructions referred to a knotted string "turkey lifter" which proved to be quite useful.

I was glad I didn't have to place an emergency call to Butterball's toll-free Turkey Talk Line, where my "turkey litter" question could have joined other memorable-but-true dumb questions archived by the turkey processor. They include:

"How do you thaw a fresh turkey?"

"How do you roast a turkey for vegetarian guests?"

"How do I get my chihuahua's head out of my Butterball's body cavity?"

Thankfully, my turkey and assortment of high-calorie comfort-food side dishes turned out fine. While disposing of boxes, bags, peelings and parings of my dinner preparation, I determined that each person who dined on my holiday fare had consumed 1.2 sticks of margarine. Take that, Jamie Oliver!

Now that the dishes are done and the Lions have lost, it's time to focus on what to do with all the turkey leftovers. After surfing the Web for recipes, I've found no shortage of suggestions, which range from hashes to soups to tacos and tetrazzini.

I've tried a few turkey curries, casseroles and chilis over the years, but I'm convinced nothing beats the turkey sandwich, served up with a side dish of reheated macaroni and cheese, mashed potatoes, or sweet potato soufflé.

But after three or more days in the refrigerator, my turkey leftovers will all be going into a new recipe I've concocted:  Turkey PETAs.

Preparation is really quite simple. You place your remaining turkey, cranberry sauce, dressing, and other favorite side dishes in a pita bread half. Discard the turkey.

Serve, enjoy, and dispose of properly.