A Terribly Lonely Christmas

I HAD been sober in AA about three months when Thanksgiving rolled around. At two in the morning of Thanksgiving Day, I finished stuffing and trussing a large turkey. The rack which held it stood on a big, flat cookie sheet, and moving the whole arrangement to its place of rest for the remainder of the night was going to be an adventure in balance. For the hundredth time that night, I gave silent thanks for being sober; then I picked up the cookie sheet, steadied its load nicely, and turned to cross the kitchen with it. As I turned, the corner of the cookie sheet bumped a two-quart pitcher nearly full of milk. The turkey never waivered on its precarious perch, but the pitcher spun crazily, spewing milk with tentative glee, and finally, in total, joyous abandon, it fell to the floor, spattering milk clear up onto the ceiling.