(and I know this doesn’t count towards my word count, but hey, it’s fun)
Circa 8am on Ritual Sacrifice with Pie Day
I have this odd little habit, this quirk if you will, of believing that it is downright rude to shove my hands into places one can arguably state hands should not go if I don’t know your name.
So, every turkey that I cook gets a name. This year, it’s Tom Bodet. (We’re sure he’ll leave the light on for us.)
Tom Bodet’s morning did not get off to a good start, and I think he knew it wasn’t going to get off to a good start, because he was very reluctant to uncross his legs. Which I suppose was kind of the trifecta, because there also wasn’t an actual turkey roasting pan to be found for Tom at three different stores this week, so we’re kind of making do with a lasagna pan and oh! Did they forget the happy little tag that tells me how much Tom weighs? Oh, yes, friends and neighbors, they did. Thank you, Smith’s, you dirty, rotten bastards, I hate you forever.
Once that was settled to my satisfaction, Tom thought they day was improving as I laved him with water, and then with garlic butter. We put a hole in that pleasant fiction when I began to stab him with an injection needle filled with, you guessed it, garlic butter. I may or may not have been laughing maniacally, reports vary. Five times in the chest, four times in the ass, and a couple more in his legs just for good measure.
But hey, I made it all better- I wrapped him up nice and snug in a plastic bag, laid him tenderly in a foil roasting pan, and tucked him tenderly away in a nice warm oven.
Circa 11 am on Ritual Sacrifice with Pie Day
Tom is slowly roasting along.
I really, really hate Smith’s (yes, the subsidiary of Kroger, thanks for reading) now- had to send the very good man Charlie Brown known as Rick for those last minute items. Can you guess what they had on the shelves in plenty?
Can you?
Aluminum roasting pans. I shake my fist at you, you black hearting pie ninjalooting bastidges. We hates you, precious.
Onward with the sides and appetizers (hot sausage cheese puff things and bacon wrapped shrimp. oh what, the pilgrims didn’t have ’em? They didn’t have cool whip either, and I’m not forgoing that, and they are delicious so there), when I got to the dilemma.
THE dilemma. The ultimate epic battle over… the dressing.
My mother is suffering under the delusion that celery is edible, and that without it, dressing isn’t. After much back and forth (I’ll make my own. No, I’ll go without.) I finally conceded the point and made dressing the only correct way, and then once my smaller casserole dish was filled, made it her way.
And now.. couchlapse time… just putting things on to heat up or throwing things in ovens. Yeah, that’s right, ovens. Thanks to Dan and my excellent bosses, I’m rockin me a double decker this year, and it’s fucking epic mcawesomebadass, bitches.
Circa 8am- Day After Ritual Sacrifice with Pie Day
We all know that I didn’t flop on the couch, right? I mean, deep in your heart you already knew that that just wasn’t a possibility for me, cause as soon as I tried to flop on the couch, remote in hand… I saw the floor.
It. Had. Spots.
I know! Completely unacceptable and the sign of a dreadful home with a dreadful hostess in which you expect all the surfaces to be sticky and the food to be inedible and no one feels safe eating it. I couldn’t have that, I couldn’t let poor Tom Bodet down! All that he’d been through, he deserved his moment in the sun- and so I got up from my wonderfully soft and comfy couch, turned on the roomba, and started mopping for all I was worth.
And then- oh then friends and neighbors.. my spidey sense tingled. You see, Tom had at least another hour in the cooker… but you know, he didn’t come with a tag and maybe, just maybe, it would be a good idea to find that pesky meat thermometer and take a look at the situation.
So I get my thermometer and park myself on the floor, cracking the oven door oh so slightly to see if maybe I’m being entirely premature.
And there- oh friends and neighbors, there is Tom Bodet, in all of his golden brown glory of turkey magnificence.
That’s right, golden. Brown. Which is a color he has no right to be with an hour to go. Panicked, I shove in the meat thermometer (to the appropriate thickest portion of the thigh).
It read 180.
PANIC! 165 is the highest necessary cooking temperature, and Tom, that overachieving bastard, has gone way way way over that mark and is now in danger of being THAT bird.
The one that you chew endlessly, that soaks up cranberry sauce like a sponge. That has that faint aftertaste of sawdust.
“NO!” I screamed, wishing I could pound his chest for effect. “We’re not going to let that happen, damn you! Don’t you dare DRY on me!” Or something to that effect. Once again, reports vary.
I extract him from the oven, oh so carefully juggling his clearly not 18 pound mass with the overflowing plastic bag I cooked him in with the clearly undersized lasagna pan I roasted him in and set him on the counter to rest.
And I waited. To take my mind off waiting for Tom to cool enough to deal with the giant oozing mass of bagged turkey broth, I picked up my folks and got the appetizers going and served.
The moment of truth arrived. I drained off the bulk of the broth, reserving just a little to pour over the cut turkey and keep it moist. I cut open the bag, and sliced into the breast meat.
It looked okay. Still reserving judgment, I looked around for a guinea pig. My stepdad had not noticed the dangerous look in my eye (or he was kinda hungry or he was willing to be the test subject for Tom Bodet). I took him the first piece, and it was pronounced good.
Sigh of relief heaved, after which I force fed my mom and Rick, both of whom made appropriate mouth noises. It was clear that Tom Bodet and I had been saved by the grace of the giant plastic roasting bag, a pound of garlic butter, and my spidey sense tingle.
So Smith’s, you bastards, I still hate you. You cheated me and sold me an underweight bird that I have no idea how underweight he was, you held out on roasting pans until it was way too late, and your mama dresses you funny.
Of course, the company was such that even if Tom Bodet had been a horrible dry mess, we still had tons of good food and warm conversation and togetherness. Oh, and pie. It wouldn’t have wrecked the day.
But it’s way easier to say that after everything turned out fine 😉
Curiouser and Curiouser 