Ah, it's that time of year again. They'll be coming soon. They always come. Every year, more and more of them. And they always want the same thing... turkeys! Big ones! Sometimes, they want many. But never a pig, never a lamb, never a goat... always turkey.

It started a few years ago, with a man on a bicycle. He looked like he hadn’t seen a good meal in years. Clothes were all worn out, and his words, well, they weren’t quite right. He comes up to me and says, “You make puika?” I didn’t understand at first. I looked at him, scratching my head. Was he asking about chickens? But no, not chickens. He was asking about turkeys.

“You make sell puika? For chestit manja,” he says, tryin’ his best to speak. I can tell he’s not from here, and his Bulgarian is... rough, to say the least. I think for a moment, then ask him, “You want turkey to eat? For a feast?”

He nods, then stops himself, shakes his head. “Da! Da! To eat for holiday!” His eyes light up, and I can tell he’s happy he got it right. I nod and tell him, “Come, follow me.”

We walk over to the coop where I keep my turkeys. I don’t have many; people round here like pig or lamb more. But we do eat turkey, maybe once in winter. We’ll cut it up, boil it with some lard, a little wine, sour cabbage, bread... it’s a good meal. I know some folks who roast it whole, stuff it with rice and raisins, but that's too much for me and my wife.

He looks at my turkeys and asks, “You have big bird?” I point to the biggest one, and I can see in his eyes he might be hoping for something bigger. But he nods, says okay.

“Not expensive, please,” he says, almost like a plea. From the way he looks, I can tell he doesn't have much money, but this turkey is important for his holiday meal.

“The turkey is 20 leva,” I tell him. His face falls, like he didn’t expect that. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out some crumpled notes. I can see he's struggling, but he needs that turkey.

“But for YOU, for your holiday, I sell it for 10 leva,” I say. His face lights up like a fire in the dark.

“Merci! Merci!” he says, thrusting some wrinkled notes at me. He thanks me over and over, says something about tradition, about holiday. It’s hard to understand, but he’s a good man, I can see that.

“Are you English?” I ask.

“Amerikanski,” he says proudly, “From Lyulin.”

That’s when I figured it out. He’s one of those refugees from America, the ones living in the city, in the rough parts. I’ve heard of them. They had to flee their country to escape war, disease, and poverty. America was once a great nation but was now little more than a wasteland. I can’t imagine how hard their life must be. They had to leave their country behind, and now they’re trying to make do here, but it’s tough. This man is spending what little he has just to get a turkey. I wonder if he’s got a family to feed.

I tell him to wait while I prepare the turkey. I wrap it up in some old newspaper, then run inside to grab something for him. I come back out with a jar of mama's Tsarska Turshia and pickled cabbage, put them in a bag, and give them to him. He’s already got the turkey in his basket, looking like it’s all he can carry.

“For you, for your holiday,” I say, handing him the bag. “A gift.”

His eyes go soft, like he’s about to cry. He hasn’t heard a kind word in a long time, I can tell.

I ask him, “How did you find my farm?” He tries to explain, points, says, “In city, ask man. He say take train to Pernik, any village, find farm, ask train man... He speak me here.”

I smile, nod like I understand, though I don’t. His words, they’re hard to follow, but I just let him talk. The man’s been through a lot.

He climbs on his bicycle, looks at me with a sly grin, and says something I can’t quite make out, but it sounds like, “You! Next year, more.” Then he pedals off, his bicycle wobbling as he heads back to the village, probably to catch a train to the city.