WHY WE ARE NOT HAVING TURKEY FOR CHRISTMAS

LET ME TELL YOU ABOUT MY THANKSGIVING DINNER
tough old birds...
both the turkey and me


I love to cook and bake, especially when it is bitter cold outside.
When I think of the word bitter, I usually think of a warm stove with a pot of soup simmering.
Maybe creamy sweet corn muffins browning in the oven. I read an old Colonial recipe that actually called for "bitters". I usually don't write my version of a recipe down, I use a recipe as a guide and then I grab and sprinkle seasonings or dust and taste. I am getting better and jotting my recipe notes down.
I can tell if the dish in question is a keeper,
by the aroma while its simmering or baking.

Another thing I think of, when hearing the word, bitter, is the time I grabbed the Chili powder instead of Cinnamon in my Cinnamon bread, I had added in 2 heaping Tablespoons. It did not smell like my bread cooking, it took me a while before I realized what I had done.
Now T H A T was bitter.

It was so bad the cats even refused to eat it.
That's how I measure a cooking mistake.
~Do the cats smell the bouquet of the item - slowly savoring the aroma?
{That means they aren't sure what the heck it is I made,
so they sniff at it for some type of recognition.}
~Do they begin to tussle making sure they get their share.
{Or are they fighting to get away from the stench}

I have made many Kitchen mistakes, through the years, but one of the biggest was when I didn't listen to my 'little chef within' a few weeks ago, on our Sunday Thanksgiving dinner.
I understand that normally Thanksgiving is always celebrated on a Thursday, but my household is not 'normal'.
Let me apologize now, I do tend to get off track easily.
I will try and focus.

Back to talkin' turkey.
I knew right away this bird was tough, didn't dawn on me
till later that he was a thirteen pounder.
I am not superstitious, but looking back now, hmmm 13 pounds-

He must have had a rough time growing up, I didn't recognize his family name at all. He wore his name tag proudly but, I just couldn't place my uneasy feeling.
I must caution you right here, I suggest you stick to your tried and true "name brand" when selecting a Holiday Turkey.

He sat in the refrigerator for three days and four nights, and just refused to warm up. I thought about crocheting a little cap and sweater for him, cause that bird was cold, cold, cold. We are on a water cistern system so I didn't have a lot of water to help defrost him. I did the best I could. I worked on him for around 3 hours. I finally got the plastic wrapper torn off enough to see him. I looked and looked, something just didn't seem, quite right...

I took another good long look at him, then I saw them. I am used to seeing little clear plastic ties gently holding the turkey, all snuggly and cuddled.
This guy... Handcuffs.
He was wearing actual tiny silver handcuffs, but not on his wings.
Wait.
Oh My Word.
He is missing a Wing.

Had I done it? Had I somehow broke his wing when I ripped of the plastic?
No.
There was no wing in the sink, the plastic or on the bird.
I did however see a small, white plastic stick with a red head sitting at the bottom of the sink. Was it a tracking device of some kind, a home incarceration ankle bracelet customized for turkey legs, do turkeys even have ankles?
I could just imagine the sight. Poor thing. Having a little turkey sling or cast of some sort on an injured wing.
*sigh*
ok, I am focusing again-

I found out from my Honey,
who was by the way looking thinner with each passing hour,
that the pop-up timer had evidently slid out during the tussle
of trying to remove the handcuffs.
The pop up timer had popped out before he was even ready to be timed.

I had every drawer open looking for something to cut with. Scissors, a sharp knife, needlenose pliers, a meat cleaver, ANYTHING.
Nothing would cut these handcuffs. I thought to myself,
I need to call or e-mail someone from our police department and suggest they get the metal components and have all of their handcuffs made with this freakishly unpenetrable material.

I needed to take a break and work on something else.
I had boiled my eggs for my deviled eggs but
had not yet made the filling.
I pulled out all of the ingredients, placing them on the counter.
I am a little eccentric that way.
I like to have everything lined up and ready to go.
Mustard, mayo, sweet relish, my secret ingredient, etc...

I gave myself a little pep talk as I placed everything in my mixing bowl, it's gonna get better, the traditional making of the eggs will be uneventful and I can have a final showdown with that tough bird, I now affectionately called JimmyCagney.
I had everything in the bowl, stirring my deviled egg filling up carefully, to make sure the color did NOT resemble new born baby poo. I grabbed the relish and could not remove the lid. I had already been humiliated enough. I was not about to ask my honey to help me wrestle with a jar of relish.
I did the 'tap with a knife on the lid' procedure, the 'place the jar upside down and tap the bottom' maneuver. I ran a little warm water over the lid, thats when I realized this was brand spankin' new jar of relish.
So I picked it up, held it tight to my chest for support and gave it
one
last
good t w i s t.

Open,
ooopen,
O P E N !!!!!
and it did.

I slung relish all over e v e r y t h i n g !
Me, the kitchen, the turkey.
JimmyCagney sat there covered in sweet relish just staring at me, knowingly.
I was already hours behind, I didn't relish' the thought of cleaning all of this mess. (see previous sentence for small pun)
My eyes scanned the carnage.

All over the clean load of dishes stacked in the dish drainer,
All over the counter. RELISH !
Swirling In my mug of hot coffee. Helplessly sinking to the bottom.

RELISH !

On the floor, all over my throw rug, yep, relish.

Sweet relish had splattered high and low.
Almost as a forboding feeling washed over me,
I looked to my left, I had not yet shut my kitchen drawers,
nothing had been safe from the spew of the violent relish explosion,
forks, spoons, knives, pot holders, all my clean towels.
EVERTHING in the drawer was contaminated.

I wanted to sit down and cry. But I didn't.
Do you know why?

JimmyCagney, I tell you I saw him smirk at me...
I know he truly didn't, cause he has no face, but still,,,
I went to work and cleaned up all of the mess I had made.

By this time, I offered to fix my Honey a cheese sandwich
as a test of his Love and patience for my cooking ability.
I was shocked.
He said, "Yes please with mustard !"
He'll pay for this betrayal later, I thought, as I pushed my hair back from my eyes.
What is that? *sigh, relish. In my hair...

We finally settled down to eat late that night.
I had never tasted turkey that didn't taste at all like turkey.
I tried to convince my honey that they somehow sold us an emu or a large crow or some such, but he looked at me and did his "3 blink and then stare at me" routine, I just don't think he believed me. I will tell, I mean share,with you more about his '3 blink routine' another time.
Let me just tell you, that next day, every one of our cats as
well as the neighbors 3 dogs were happy beyond belief.

Poor JimmyCagney, they drug him, up the hill, down the hill, thru the woods, across the gravel and under the trailer.
By the time everyone had a nibble or two there was nothing left of him.
I smiled a secret smile and thought to myself,
Yes, I would say the cats
had quite a wonderful Thanksgiving meal.

That is why I am not cooking a turkey for Christmas this year.


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