So, a girl walks into a kitchen, by herself prepares an entire Thanksgiving meal from scratch (minus such conveniences as boxed chicken stock and canned pumpkin), spills sweet potatoes all over her clothes, burns her hand and does 8,763 dishes all with hopes of meeting her high and hardly attainable cooking expectations. The house smells lovely, with the aroma of roasting turkey and savory cornbread stuffing wafting through the air. She’s satisfied with the spread of delicious looking food she’s about to serve her family. That is, however, until she pulls the turkey from the oven.
And then, my friends, that girl has…you guessed it: a turkey meltdown.
She channels her inner hot-headed Italian gene, mutters, bangs her fists and wishes she could throw her meat thermometer out the window. She did everything right; she read the directions over and over, brined, patted dry, rubbed with oil, seasoned with salt and pepper. The turkey looks done; it has been roasting for the specified time, and the white meat registers complete doneness. The dark meat, however, is not done. The turkey goes back in the oven, the girl mutters a bit more and is thankful her young daughter is not within earshot of the colorful language escaping her tongue.
As the turkey continues to cook, while the remaining food is done and losing temperature quickly, the girl drops to the floor, head in her hands, melodramatically wishing they were all vegetarians.
“I only wanted to cook a turkey breast” she said to herself, with a certain amount of self pity in her voice. “A turkey breast does not cause such epic frustration” she told herself. But, you see, she didn’t have a choice this year. For she had a whole turkey in her freezer; a turkey her young daughter proudly won in a running race. How could she not cook that damn turkey? Never mind the fact that the winner of the turkey won’t touch turkey with a ten foot pole.
More and more time elapses and the turkey, with meat pulling away from the bones and other visual cues signaling that the meat is cooked through, still isn’t registering complete doneness in the leg/thigh area.
Perhaps it’s the fault of the thermometer? Or, perhaps, the girl is just cursed?
Whatever the case, the girl beckons her family for dinner, throwing her hands in the air, admitting defeat and wishing she could now throw not just her stupid meat thermometer, but also the entire turkey, out the window.
Thankfully the girl’s husband declares the turkey not only edible, but tasty as well. But still, the girl, with terribly high standards, isn’t entirely convinced. The evening went on, no one got sick from ill prepared turkey and in the grand scheme of things, all is well.
The girl is still annoyed and has vowed to only cook turkey breasts on Thanksgiving from now on.
It’s a true story, folks. The turkey meltdown happened. It wasn’t as legendary as it could have been, but I’m still DONE with turkey.
I believe the words “I’m never roasting another $&^$&$*#&@*# turkey again” slipped through my lips on a couple of occasions, last night.
Down with turkey.
In other news, I’m participating in Black Friday via the comfort of my own home. Just like that, with the help of the incredibly dangerous Amazon “one click” option, I’ve purchased a few Christmas gifts this morning. The best part is that when I use my Amazon visa card, I get triple points on all Amazon purchases, which I then redeem for Amazon gift cards.
Win, win, win.
Which is far better than the “why, why, why” I cried last night.
Shopping good. Turkey bad.