Forgive me, for what I’m about to do. But, you have to know that any post entitled “turkey foot” is going to be ripe with tales probably best left off line. Kept in one’s private home. Left to be discussed in hushed tones among personal confidantes.

Sadly, I have nothing else to share tonight, and, as they say, writer’s block is the best source of inspiration out there.

Who says such an idiosyncratic thing, you may ask?

I have no idea.

Upon returning from Yellowstone two weeks ago, I mentioned I was having a spot of trouble with one of my toes.

I didn’t go into any of the icky details.

Because they were icky. And this is a blog of substance. Integrity. Class.

Well, not any more! Two weeks is a lot of time for things to change. And between then, and now, writer’s block hit full force. And, as they say, writer’s block is the best source of motivation.

So, if you get queasy by icky foot anecdotes — consider yourself warned.

I have never before felt such an icky force take over my foot as the time I had an in-grown toenail. Which was two weeks ago.

At first, I was concerned the immense pain in my toe was the result of some sort of  scary bacteria creeping into my foot when I used the communal shower in Yellowstone. (And yes, it was an immense pain. I know a toenail problem seems like something that shouldn’t be that big of a deal, but trust me. Should this malady every plague you, you have my utmost sympathy!)

I envisioned this bacteria seeping through my toes, up my leg, and into the bone wherein the only cure was amputation.

No, I’m not that dramatic. Why do you ask?

When the in-office nurse at my place of business took a look, she eased my bacterial fears immediately.

“Ooh, in-grown toenail,” she said. “Those are incredibly painful.” (See, the nurse thought so too!)

The cure: A good soaking in a tub with Epsom salts.

The problem: I have gigantic feet.

I got home and banged about in my kitchen looking for a suitable foot-sized receptacle. (How many of you are now thinking, “I will never accept a dinner invitation from that girl”? Be honest.)

Nothing was big enough. Save my tub. But the tub would require me to use an inordinate amount of Epsom salt. And I didn’t know how many gallons of water the tub held. And what’s the proper way to convert cups to gallons? Or was liters what I should be figuring for?

And, oh my goodness, my toe really hurts.

So I did what any normal person would do: I bought a turkey tub.

It. Was. Perfect.

Large enough for my gigantic feet. Cheap. Sturdy. Cheap.

Everything a person could want for a good creepy bacteria exorcism. I mean in-grown toenail.

Pour salt into tub. Allow to dissolve.

Have your foot assume the position.

And plunge.

Roast for 4 hours. When red button pops, it is finito!

And that’s the story of how a picture of my foot came to be on the worldwide web.

I’ll understand if we can no longer be friends.

Update: my toe has made a full recovery and lived to tell the tale. I’d like to thank Linda, the nurse, and whoever invented aluminum turkey tubs.