Here’s your new Thanksgiving script: Take the turkey out of the package. Remove the giblets (save those for gravy or a pet that lives to judge you). Pat the skin dry with paper towels. Season the heck out of it. Roast it until it sings at 165°F. That’s it. No rinse. No guilt. No microscopic apocalypse in your kitchen.
And if your Aunt Karen starts lecturing you about “how she’s always done it,” hand her a turkey baster and gently remind her that we also used to treat headaches with leeches. Times change. Your turkey deserves better than a bath. It deserves a hot oven, your trust, and a sense of humor about the whole ordeal. Now go forth and roast—and please, for the love of gravy, keep that bird out of the sink.