One of the benefits of living in Sparkleland is the experience of Turkey Day. No, I do not mean the 4th Thursday of November which is America’s excuse at political correctness. I mean the random day throughout the year when I decide to make an ENTIRE Thanksgiving-like feast, and proceed to share it with… no one except the people I live with.
The tradition of Turkey Day started when I came up with the brilliant idea of seeing whether or not I could complete the task of preparing almost every dish associated with Thanksgiving, at one time. This occurred a couple years ago in March and is best forgotten really. I found that I was not, at that time, ready to host any family holidays. I was unaware that one must give a 25 lb. turkey sufficient time to thaw (as in 3 or 4 days), instead I tried cooking it after letting it unfreeze for about 2 hours. Needless to say, the bloody frozen innard part of my bird was not appropriate for eating. As for the rest of the dinner? The stuffing was dry, the gravy was lumpy and greasy, the green bean hotdish was runny, and I burnt the brown-and-serve rolls.I remember that day and cringe- after waiting 7 hours for the turkey to be done (which never happened), all I had to feed my Beloveds was a mountain of mashed potatoes. As my Rockstar put it, “That was kind of a disaster.”
Last year, Turkey Day fell on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. I realize this doesn’t make alot of sense, since copious amounts of turkey were to be eaten the next day. My Rockstar amiably went along with it, despite the past wretched experience, because he knew that I really wanted to try again. Luckily, I spent numerous hours researching turkey cooking, and the resulting affect was surprisingly edible. However, I did end up throwing half the bird away when I couldn’t figure out how to carve it efficiently.
Turkey Day falls on today this year simply because my 20 lb. birdy I picked up wasn’t thawed out yesterday. Unless you have prepared a store-bought turkey before, you cannot understand the disgusting thrill of sticking your hand up a mammoth bird’s ass and pulling out all that nasty grossness that only Swedish people eat. (giblets and such) Since I had the assistance of my Rockstar’s Daughter in preparing Bob for baking before school today, (yes, I name my turkeys) I was bombarded with squeals of “He’s pooping!” and “That’s DEEEE-GUSTING!” as I was pulling the slimy conveniently- prepared gravy packet out of Bob’s rectum. (which Bob greatly appreciated, having done a little Turkey Jig in celebration)
Of course, it would make sense to prepare my Bob in a similiar fashion as last year, since Josie (last year’s turkey) turned out so well, but I have never really been one to do things that are sensible. Instead, I cruised online to find turkey baking instructions, and settled on some that require NO water in the pan. I hope Bob doesn’t dry out. After cutting the all-natural plastic cuffs that held Bob’s legs together, (oops) I re-tied them together with flower wire. (How handy of me). I guess we’ll find out if this year’s Turkey Day is a bust in 7 hours….