Thanksgiving might guess it was all about worshipping a bird. Turkeys appear to be raised just for this occasion, much as Aztecs (who also valued turkeys) raised children destined for sacrifice.
Devotees go to extremes to ensure they get a turkey.
The US government airlifts thousands to US military and diplomatic personnel, while other American expatriates scour local markets for their avian sacrament. The President, as high priest of the Republic, ceremoniously spares two turkeys from slaughter.
Less fortunate turkeys are then cooked with near theological disputes over what goes in the stuffing or how to marinate it, the ritual bath.
Heretic sects explore options like tandoori turkey or (very dangerous) deep-frying. The object of veneration has ritual accompaniments, like cranberry sauce and pumpkin pie.
And, finally, the turkey is eaten and everyone pretends its blandness is actually delicious and desirable, which may be one of the purest expressions of true blind faith.
Afterwards, everyone takes leftovers, like prasad, which linger on for days, impossible to junk because of their sacred status.
The turkey even has its icons, images that seem made for worship. One of the most notable is Indian, made by the great Mughal miniature artist Ustad Mansur around 1612 CE.
It was of a turkey that Emperor Jehangir had received from his courtier Muqarrab Khan, bought from the Portuguese in Goa.
In the Jehangir-nama, the emperor recorded his amazement at how the bird changed colour: «When it is in heat it is quite red — one might say it had adorned itself with red coral — and after a while it becomes white in the same places and looks like cotton. It sometimes looks as of a turquoise colour.» Male turkeys do this by