Ok, i've fallen off the wagon a bit. First it was beautiful in the land of the 100-mile diet. I lost weight, I felt euphoric, the farmers were my people, I was pulling it off and had bragging rights. But after coming up with exceptions to the rule out of duty to family, research in the plight of learning about pizza, going out of town and hanging around with the wrong sort of people, everything went out the window. Now i have a daily habit of coffee at a place in Northampton where everybody knows my name and my overalls aren't falling off my skeleton frame anymore. I know that I can stop at anytime, really. I just have to remember what it takes to get a Butterball on your thanksgiving table–factory farming at its worst. I'll spare you the details but attacking sweet, frightened hens to the ground with a baster is just for starters. Read more about the plight of the big, white breasted, single-breed turkey in the Advocate column next week. It comes out on the day you'll be…uh, watching the game. If you haven't ordered a free range turkey from Wendell yet, call now. There might be one left. The place is called Diemand Farm. They're the only game in town.