Before I drove today, Pat asked if hitting a turkey would result in a PA (Preventable Accident).
"That depends," I told him, "on whether it's moving or not. Clip 'im whilst he's airborne, you might be okay."
"Hmm," the old rascal replied, "I didn't know they could fly. Them store-bought birds is likely too fat to get air. But one thing I do know. Wild Turkey makes me fly!"
It's unknown at this point if Pat actually found his prey. It could make for an entertaining discussion at the Accident Review Board.
It was bound to happen eventually. After years of rousing success as a holiday cook, I pulled the biggest, most ridiculous gaffe of all time. Not even my wife's classic "Cooking Pizza with Cardboard Still on Bottom" can touch this one. She is relieved to be free of her historic burden, gleeful she will be able to lord this over me the rest of our lives. It will take a long time for anyone in my family to top this blunder. I hadn't even touched my specially-prepared cocktail in celebration of a weekday off.
Oh boy, how do I begin? Preparing to make my annual Infamous Pumpkin Pies, I turned the oven on to 450 to pre-heat. Got all my supplies together on the table: spices, pumpkin, eggs, evaporated milk, etc. Glen Campbell's "Gentle on My Mind" blaring in my headphones, I proceeded to pie-making. Just as I was cracking the eggs, my son burst into the kitchen.
"Um Dad, did you forget something?" he asked. As he opened the oven door, I melted with realization. My ticker sank so low, I almost farted my heart.
In order to keep Kitties 1 and 2 from gnawing on frozen turkey, we placed it in the oven earlier in the day to thaw. Of course, I had earlier lectured wife and son not to turn the oven on before removing the bird. It's they who should have reminded me.
You know, 450 degrees for 20 minutes is pretty damn hot. It's what helps set the custard in a pumpkin pie, but it's a bit higher than room temperature required to slow-thaw a big-ass bird. As I pulled it out, the smell of burning plastic assaulted the kitchen air. I would rather drool while speaking gibberish in a bus full of passengers than face what my family will forever dredge up every time I step foot in any kitchen.
The plastic bag was melted enough to reveal a large breast of birdy already turning golden. It was definitely thawed, marinated in plastic flavoring mixed with turkey fat.
After ruining my last two Hollandaise sauces, now this debacle has me reeling. My cooking confidence needs mending. Maybe this second attempt at Thanksgiving dinner will go better. At least my pies came out okay!
That poor bird gave his life for nothing. I hope the new turkey thaws in time to be properly cooked today. If not, at least everyone else will enjoy roasted Deke.
Happy Thanksgiving, ya turkeys!
"That depends," I told him, "on whether it's moving or not. Clip 'im whilst he's airborne, you might be okay."
"Hmm," the old rascal replied, "I didn't know they could fly. Them store-bought birds is likely too fat to get air. But one thing I do know. Wild Turkey makes me fly!"
It's unknown at this point if Pat actually found his prey. It could make for an entertaining discussion at the Accident Review Board.
* * * * *
It was bound to happen eventually. After years of rousing success as a holiday cook, I pulled the biggest, most ridiculous gaffe of all time. Not even my wife's classic "Cooking Pizza with Cardboard Still on Bottom" can touch this one. She is relieved to be free of her historic burden, gleeful she will be able to lord this over me the rest of our lives. It will take a long time for anyone in my family to top this blunder. I hadn't even touched my specially-prepared cocktail in celebration of a weekday off.
Oh boy, how do I begin? Preparing to make my annual Infamous Pumpkin Pies, I turned the oven on to 450 to pre-heat. Got all my supplies together on the table: spices, pumpkin, eggs, evaporated milk, etc. Glen Campbell's "Gentle on My Mind" blaring in my headphones, I proceeded to pie-making. Just as I was cracking the eggs, my son burst into the kitchen.
"Um Dad, did you forget something?" he asked. As he opened the oven door, I melted with realization. My ticker sank so low, I almost farted my heart.
In order to keep Kitties 1 and 2 from gnawing on frozen turkey, we placed it in the oven earlier in the day to thaw. Of course, I had earlier lectured wife and son not to turn the oven on before removing the bird. It's they who should have reminded me.
You know, 450 degrees for 20 minutes is pretty damn hot. It's what helps set the custard in a pumpkin pie, but it's a bit higher than room temperature required to slow-thaw a big-ass bird. As I pulled it out, the smell of burning plastic assaulted the kitchen air. I would rather drool while speaking gibberish in a bus full of passengers than face what my family will forever dredge up every time I step foot in any kitchen.
The plastic bag was melted enough to reveal a large breast of birdy already turning golden. It was definitely thawed, marinated in plastic flavoring mixed with turkey fat.
After ruining my last two Hollandaise sauces, now this debacle has me reeling. My cooking confidence needs mending. Maybe this second attempt at Thanksgiving dinner will go better. At least my pies came out okay!
That poor bird gave his life for nothing. I hope the new turkey thaws in time to be properly cooked today. If not, at least everyone else will enjoy roasted Deke.
Happy Thanksgiving, ya turkeys!
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