Saturday, December 27, 2014

Our Christmas turkey

Twas three nights before Christmas, and the turkey was in the fridge to thaw. I'd been up a mite late reading because having a mate with just a touch of dementia and who desires my constant attention allows me a life of my own only when she sleeps. So I stumbles into the kitchen at the bright early hour of eight and thirty without my glasses on yet and sees my good wife just encumbered with that old turkey in the roaster on the counter. She's just a hackin and a sawin and me not thinkin too good yet figures well that's a new way to prepare a turkey for the oven and it must be still pretty frozen cause we only took it out yesterday and well, strange things happen around here pretty regular like. So, I finds my glasses and looks at that turkey, and holy kershmoly, if that old turkey isn't lookin pretty brown and roasted on the outside at least. And yes, now that my nose is waking up it does smell of roasted turkey even with the window wide open and the odours extrapolating themselves into the neighbourhood.

Now normally at this point in the story we would go into a theosophical adventure involving turkeys and mythology but today we'll just carry on with the facts. So me, being a nice guy and not wanting to cause mayhem, and her looking just all proud of her early morning accomplishment, she must have woke up at four to pull off this feat, I just says “Wow, you cooked the turkey.” She smiles patiently at me and being somewhat tired, hands over all responsibility to me, her concentration being all used up, the normal being that I wake to find something parched in the oven and her fast asleep with no recollection of having activated the range. So, very pleased with her sharing of responsibilities around here, she wanders off to bed to forget about turkeys and cooking and will ask when she wakes if I bought a turkey for Christmas this year.

Needless to say I made a pot of coffee and considered my options. The sage and thyme and loaf of bread crumbs were still in the cupboard, and though the innards were well thawed at this point they were still pretty red and juicy and though stuffing a half cooked turkey would be physically possible the outside inches would obviously be well overdone with another three hours in the oven, so I decided to forgo the stuffing at this time. I went with option B, which was to cut and hack that half cooked turkey into pieces and using every container I could find, I packed and labelled with a container for stuffing parts and broth, and a big one for soup carcass, and several for white meat, and another big one for drumsticks and wings, and in less than an hour everything was cleaned up and washed and hidden away in the freezer, and our three cats were wondering if they had been dreaming about the delicious smells.

And so Christmas Eve finally came and I spent the afternoon preparing a tasty stuffing which went in it's own pan, and another pan for a drumstick and a wing and a huge white breast, and we smelled up the house to once more drive the cats crazy, and had a delicious dinner with cranberry sauce and rice and even a bit of gravy from the juices, and along with the box of chocolates my good wife was smiling ear to ear as she remarked “You fooled me, I was sure you forgot the turkey this year.” Then we went for a ride through the more upscale parts of our dear city to view the lights and that night she slept soundly, and as I lived my own life for a while that evening, daring Santa to try our chimney, I wondered what adventure I could possibly wake to in the morning.
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