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The Little Turkey That Wasn’t is a warm, whimsical short story that explores family, tradition, and creativity through the lens of culinary innovation. While it is a holiday story on the surface, it operates on multiple levels—highlighting themes of adaptability, the intersection of heritage and modernity, and the joy found in playful experimentation.

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The Little Turkey That Wasn’t

By Harry Arabian

(Featuring Vegan Chickpea Kibbeh Patties on the Saj)

On the morning of Thanksgiving, the kitchen smelled nothing like turkey—but that was exactly the point.

Lina stood at her counter, sleeves rolled to her elbows, hands deep in a bowl of mashed chickpeas, bulgur, caramelized onions, and warm spices. Cumin, cinnamon, allspice—little puffs of Levantine comfort rising into the cool November air. Her saj pan, dented from years of travel and stories, sat warming on the stove like a loyal companion.

This year, she’d promised her family something new.

“A turkey!” her nephew Timmy demanded.
“But vegan!” her sister insisted.
“And flavorful,” her father added with the solemnity of a man who’d endured too many bland holiday experiments.

So Lina had an idea—something playful, something ancestral, something that felt like home and holiday all at once:
Vegan Chickpea Kibbeh Patties, shaped like tiny turkeys, cooked on the saj.

She worked each patty carefully, molding little chickpea bodies, pressing almond slivers in for tail feathers, and dotting a touch of pomegranate molasses for the beak. One patty refused to cooperate, collapsing into a lopsided blob.

“You,” she whispered to it, “are the rebel turkey.”

When she set the first patty onto the hot saj, it sizzled with pride, crisping into a perfect golden shell while staying soft and herb-laced within. The rebel turkey sputtered, hissed, and finally settled into a clumsy oval—still delicious, she hoped.

By noon the house was full: laughter echoing in the hallway, boots lined by the door, light snow drifting past the window. The platter of kibbeh-turkeys became the centerpiece, fragrant and gleaming.

“What is this?” her sister asked, squinting.
“A flock,” Lina announced proudly.
“A flock of… chickpea birds,” her nephew whispered reverently.

Everyone reached for one—even the rebel turkey. They bit in: warm, spiced, nutty, smoky from the saj. Silence fell—the good kind—followed by nods, then seconds. Then thirds.

By the end of dinner, the platter was empty except for a scatter of almond feathers.

Her father leaned back, satisfied. “Best turkey we’ve had in years,” he said, tapping his fork against the empty dish.

Lina smiled. The little turkey that wasn’t—and all its companions—had found a place in the family archive of traditions, the kind retold every Thanksgiving. And in the kitchen, on the still-warm saj, the rebel turkey left one final trace: a perfect, tiny, chickpea-shaped scorch mark—an imprint of culinary rebellion that would make Lina laugh every time she cooked.