Compared to recent Thanksgivings at the Kengor abode, this one isn’t quite as bountiful — or perhaps I should say fruitful. Yes, you heard that correctly: Cornish Cross Broilers…. You know that your prospects for life are not long when the name you bear spells your fate in the oven. Sure, from a human perspective, the Kengor abode is fruitful. We’ll have 18 people at our house in the woods in western Pennsylvania, along with a forecast of three to six inches of snow. That includes seven of my eight children. The only one who can’t make it — my oldest daughter — is blessedly prohibited by her and her husband’s little blessing, our first grandchild. The little guy was born 10 weeks premature, but I’m happy to report that he’s doing terrific and might be discharged from the hospital this week. That would be something for which the whole family is especially thankful. Less productive — or I should say reproductive — were my two turkeys. This time each year, I regale readers of The American Spectator with tantalizing tales of the turkeys I raise, typically a half dozen or so. All but two or three — a male and female or two — are spared the knife in mid-November. They’re kept throughout the winter and into the next spring for purposes of reproducing the next harvest. Each female produces 60 or so eggs, which I incubate and hatch. For young LGBTQ liberals who don’t understand what we used to call “the birds and the bees,” the process works like this: the female produces eggs. The male produces sperm. When the two have sexual relations, the eggs are fertilized and thus capable of generating baby turkeys. Paul’s turkey — thawing on the kitchen counter and ready for broiling (Paul Kengor/American Spectator) Despite what your college or university taught you, that’s how nature works. This egg-sperm thing also occurs in homo sapiens (Gen Z alert: “homo” in this context doesn’t refer to sexuality). Unless perhaps the female has been visiting the Planned Parenthood clinic to secure birth-control pills. In fact, that makes me suspicious of my two most recent turkeys. Last year, I retained two turkeys — beautiful birds, exquisite. To borrow from my gal Sydney Sweeney, they had great genes. Had Planned Parenthood matron Margaret Sanger and her band of race eugenicists spotted these impressive creatures, they would have drooled at the prospect of “creating a race of thoroughbreds,” as Maggie put it on the masthead of her flagship publication, Birth Control Review. Unfortunately, these two good-looking birds were infertile (or at least one of the two was infertile). The female laid several dozen eggs, which I carefully incubated. This process would normally yield at least a dozen baby turkeys (they’re called “poults”), but this time, I didn’t get a single hatch. Not one. It was as if this pair came not from Agway but Planned Parenthood. And returning to some clarifications for the LGBTQ community, I can attest that the male wasn’t “gay.” No, he quite visibly if not crudely demonstrated his interest in the female. His behavior was so aggressive that if a feminist had entered my property and observed his “toxic masculinity,” screams if not lawsuits would have ensued immediately. It was hard to call what I witnessed “consensual.” Certainly not on every occasion. I should also make clear to LGBTQ folks that there was no “gender dysphoria” among either of the two birds. But getting back to the problem at hand: These two utterly failed to reproduce. The pair didn’t generate a single damned hatch. Alas, this meant that when I took them to the Amish lady for butchering, it was the end of my current stock. I’m happy to report, however, that the male weighed in at 25 pounds. He alone will feed the Kengor family and our guests, plus the potatoes, pies, cranberry sauce, and overall feast that my wife skillfully prepares. The lead photo in this article shows what he looked like thawing on the counter. He’ll look even better on the dining room table. Sorry, vegans and animal-rights nuts. Call it God’s dominion, the natural law. A Coda to My Turkey Tale Not wanting an empty cage with no fresh meat available, I did replace the turkeys with a hearty supply of 10 Cornish Cross Broiler meat chickens. Yes, you heard that correctly: Cornish Cross Broilers. Indeed, their very name bespeaks their ultimate destination: the broiler. You know that your prospects for life are not long when the name you bear spells your fate in the oven. These 10 never have a chance for longevity. They live only about 12 weeks before their dénouement with the Amish lady. Incidentally, her name is “Fannie,” and she greets the chickens by declaring in a gentle, sweet voice: “Yep, time to take their heads off.” If that sounds a bit crass, consider that Fannie’s action at that point is an act of mercy. These broilers, after all, are bred to eat. In fact, they eat so fast, so fastidiously, so unceasingly, that they’ll eat themselves to death. It’s true. They devour their feed so continuously, with no off switch, that their hearts pop. I lost two to sudden cardiac arrest. The others have filled my freezer in lieu of those failed turkey hatches that never transpired. And so, the bounty is plenty at the Kengor abode this season. We have multiple Cornish Broilers and two (infertile) turkeys available consumption. We are thankful for that. My best wishes to all of you and your families for a blessed Thanksgiving. Enjoy your turkey. READ MORE from Paul Kengor: Maximilian Kolbe’s Triumph at Auschwitz The Mamdani Model: More Socialist Mayors to Come New Yorkers Elect ANOTHER Commie Mayor