Eat the Turkey - Don't BE a Turkey

by Anna

My mother has fully resigned from the holidays. At first, she just did nontraditional holiday meals. Now, she is completely moving out of the state to avoid any holiday expectations.

So, after a few years of turkey/dressing deprivation, she finally heard my cry and randomly dumped a 25 pound frozen bird in my ‘fridge. WTF? At first I was totally intimidated by the bitch’s huge ass (the turkey’s – not my mother’s). (And, by the way, are turkeys male or female? I didn’t see any of those body parts in the giblet sack.) But I decided to face my fears - my intimidation turned to interest and then to excitement.

I googled some recipes, set a date and invited some close buddies over for "Friendsgiving."  I thought for sure this thing would be thawed in 4 days. NOPE! Six hours before showtime the bitch was still frozen solid. So I threw her in some water, gave her a pep talk, and called my guests to let them know that we’d be having hor d’oeuvres before dinner (trying to buy some time). Two hours into her hot tub soak I slapped her on the ass and said, “Time to face the heat!” 

Of course she still hadn't warmed up to me so I ended up wrestling her to the floor trying to undo that plastic thing that held her legs together. Good god! It was like a chastity belt for slutty birds! I decided that I would just have to cut it off. I tried scissors; I tried knives; I tried chewing on it. I considered melting it with a lighter but finally got it off and scooped out her frozen innards. I found an old paint brush (other DIY tips to follow) and lathered her down with a mixture of warm butter, parsley, sage and rosemary. I like to call it my "Scarborough Af-Fair."

After I snuggled her in my tiny oven, I felt all warm inside. I started to wash some dishes and BAM! A wine glass exploded and made a huge gash on my hand. Blood flew everywhere. My apartment now looked like I had killed the bird myself. So off I went to the ER to get stitches. As karma would have it, my mother now had to monitor the very thing she hates to cook. (Sometimes the Universe has a sense of humor, don’t you think?) But, by the time she made it over, my smoke alarm was going off and it wasn’t to cheer me on - my whole apartment had filled with smoke. SHIT! Did I leave that towel inside the bird? Did l leave the giblet wrapper in the pan? Was the bitch mad about how I treated her and was letting off steam? WTF happened? I accused my mother of setting it on fire so she could get firemen to come over.

Despite all the travails the turkey was delicious and we learned that my smoke detector works and that the wait time in the ER is as long as it ever was.

So, for your next girlfriends’ get together, DON’T cook but definitely drink. This is what we like to serve on a cold winter’s night - a mixture of peppermint mocha with vodka in a peppermint cup. Cheers! (OUCH! My hand hurts!)