I just wanted to give myself (and those hanging on the edge of their seats) a little closure about cooking the turkey for the Thanksgiving.
I waited this long a.) to make sure no one had any delayed serious and/or fatal cases of salmonella poisoning, and b.) manhandling a 21.4-pound beast is exhausting.
At first, I was super nervous. Looking at this thing was like staring long and hard at your biggest fear.
But I lifted it into the sink and got to work.
Please Note the rubber glove was worn out of safety since I took a chunk off my thumb while preparing roasted root vegetables, not because I was scared.
Hey, little known fact about turkeys: there is a metal wire holding it together which is damn near impossible to take out. My mom, who was assisting, told Harrington, who was photo documenting, to do it. I shut that shit down. When I commit, I commit the whole way. So after I yanked that metal piece out, I lathered up that bird in an olive oil paste of garlic, sage, thyme, and rosemary.
|The smile says, "Gross, but totally doing it! Yay me!"|
See, here I am separating the skin from the meat because what good is the flavor if it is only on he outside. (See, I commit all the way).
|Look at the look of concentration. Maybe I missed my chance at being a surgeon. Or a butcher.|
Also, please don't judge the scruntchie. I needed my hair out of my face
and still look good later that day.
Then I popped it in the oven and put the electronic thermometer in the correct spot (or so I thought).
I washed my arms like I was scrubbing in for surgery.
And bleached the kitchen (along with my soul).
I started to get nervous because the bird was cooking so fast. I kept on turning the oven down and down. And let the bird rest. And it wasn't done. So long story short, my mom and my mother-in-law were ripping the legs of the turkey to pop back in the oven.
Pink juices were flowing onto my counter.
I repeat: Pink juices were flowing onto my counter.
Luckily, I was preoccupied with obsessing about the rest of the bird and drinking my wine, because obviously.
While obsessing, I notice that part of the breast near the bone was questionable so I popped it in the oven and had more wine.
And proceeded to make the most amazing gravy ever.
I put the rest of the stuff on the table. I kept mashed potatoes warm with this trick.
And everyone lived happily ever after without any trips to the ER. The end.
There is this weird thing about facing a life long fear and surviving. I thought I would only feel joy and triumph. But I feel kind of pissed I spent that much time being scared. And then I felt sad that I was that sick with OCD and didn't even know it. I just thought it was normal since I wasn't totally and completely destroying my life.
Don't get me wrong, there was a feeling of accomplishment, but I was taken off guard by the other feelings.
Have you ever conquered a fear only to feel sad?