It’s July and in opposite land, where I’ve taken up permanent residence, that means turkey time. More specifically, that means that Craig and his work mates must have been dreaming of Thanksgiving dinner one slow night at work and decided that July would be the perfect time to have a Thanksgiving style potluck. Here’s my deal with Thanksgiving: it’s my favorite holiday, but I break out in hives when I think about having to roast a turkey. I brined and roasted one perfect turkey back in 2002 and I have not been successful in duplicating that masterpiece since. I’ve come close; my turkeys are always edible and tasty; but not nearly as tasty as that turkey in 2002. Every year I have a turkey meltdown. Every year. Shameful, I know.
Some year’s meltdowns are more dramatic than others, but I usually end up sitting down to dinner, covered in sweat and sulking because I didn’t obtain perfection. It’s nearly impossible to have all the dishes warm and ready to eat at the same time and that bothers me so very much. So, I wolf down my food, thinking only of the gargantuan pile dishes that are waiting for me and then console myself with pumpkin pie. I wonder why I list Thanksgiving as my favorite holiday? Maybe it’s like childbirth and I just forget the pain every year. However, I still remember what little pain I did feel during child birth, so I don’t think I believe people when they say things like that. Sure, I had an epidural, but the back labor I had preceding the injection of the most wonderful drugs ever is permanently (permanently!) etched in my memory.
Not to worry though, Joe, once of Craig’s fellow warrant officers, and a culinary master, offered to smoke a turkey for them. I tip my hat to Joe. So that was the plan. Joe would provide the turkey and everyone else would chip in with their offerings. I was signed up for pumpkin chess bars and macaroni and cheese.
Since Joe doesn’t work at night, Craig picked up the turkey from Joe’s house after work yesterday and it was my task, along with my dishes (oh, and the mashed potatoes that somehow crept onto the list) to warm up the turkey.
It ended up being quite a success even though the smell of smoked, bacon wrapped turkey has permeated into the walls of my house and car.
We’re leaving for a mini vacation to Williamsburg tomorrow evening. As luck would have it, Caroline was exposed to strep throat. Isn’t that great?!? The day before we’re set to leave for our PREPAID vacation, there is a possibility that she was infected with strep. Life is truly awesome sometimes.
The two sisters, who are the germ carriers, have passed the bacteria back and forth to each other on a couple previous occasions and Caroline, quite thankfully, wasn’t affected. Hopefully that will be the case this time.
Oh please, oh please, oh please, let this be the case.
She can have strep next week.
No, I take that back. Next week she’s signed up for a day camp at the local elementary school.
Watch, I’ll get it instead of her.
Hey, the more I think about it, I actually did get strep throat (the first time since I was 13!) the day after Thanksgiving last year. Wouldn’t that be funny if I came down with it again after this years mock Thanksgiving?
It that’s the case, not only will I be a prophetic genius, but I’ll also have no choice but to remove Thanksgiving from the top ranking on my “favorite holiday” list. We’ll have to break up. And then we’ll eat pizza next Thanksgiving. But we’ll still have pumpkin pie.
Nothing will ever be so horrible that I would feel compelled to remove pumpkin pie from my life.