Over the summer we ordered a Thanksgiving turkey from the same ranch in Eastern Washington where we buy our beef.

We got emails confirming delivery of both. The cow, we thought, would arrive on November 6; the turkey, on November 13.

So, the first Saturday of November, Doug drove up to a church on Phinney Ridge to pick up the beef.

About an hour after he got home, he got a call from the ranch’s delivery driver who wanted to know if Doug was planning to come pick up his turkey.

“I thought we were supposed to pick that up next week,” Doug said.

The driver apologized. He wasn’t the usual driver; there must have been a mixup. Still, he had the turkey. Could Doug come get it? Preferably in the next five minutes.

Doug had to go get cash to pay for the turkey. He couldn’t pick it up in five minutes. He offered to drive to the next delivery location and pick the turkey up there.

Two hours later, he came home, sans turkey. “I’m defeated,” he said.

He’d gone to the address the delivery driver had given him, but no one was there. And, alas, he’d left his cell phone at home, so he couldn’t call and find out where the guy was.

He called now and the driver asked if Doug wanted to meet him at his next stop. Doug said wearily, “Could we just pick it up next week like we’re supposed to?”

“Sure,” the driver said. “No problem.”

Only it was, actually, a problem: the next Saturday, when Doug drove back up to the church on Phinney Ridge, no one was there.

He called and left a message: “Uh, where’s my turkey?”

“Good grief,” I said. “After all this, they should deliver it to our door.”

That week, Doug exchanged several emails with the delivery coordinator at the ranch. There was a little confusion. The order number Doug had was from 2008. They were having difficulty locating our order. Did we have another order number?

“Oh for heaven’s sake,” I said. “What airheads.”

Then I found the original email confirming our turkey order, along with the delivery date: November 6. Turns out, we were the airheads.

“Can you tell him we just had twins?” I asked Doug, pleading our extenuating circumstances. He didn’t need to.

The delivery coordinator was super nice about it and he had the driver bring us our turkey this past Saturday. So, once more, Doug drove up to that church on Phinney Ridge. This time, he returned triumphant, turkey in hand – or rather, both hands.

All I can say is, this had better be one awesome bird.