One day, I will post of my culinary successes. I don’t finally look back on the scrumptious cupcakes I made though, I can finally look back and chuckle on how I almost ruined Thanksgiving.
Almost a year ago now, I decided to host Thanksgiving at my apartment. I’m not quite sure what possessed me to do so, but I wanted too. It’s a modest crowd. I felt like it would be manageable…minus the fact I’ve never cooked most Thanksgiving components before. My first mistake was forgetting the acorn squash, but it was not my worst.
You know you have a great family when your mom and sister come out the night before to drink with you at Eddy & Iggy’s and to wake up with you to help you cook!
Stuffing the turkey went well, in fact, even better than one might expect. I held it together while unhooked the wingies, pulled the little plastic bag of guts out and put the stuffing in. With my hand? Okay, yep, let’s just get right in there. (yuck.)
Unstuffing the turkey is where our meal prep went amiss. In the final minutes after mimosas, cheese and crackers, shrimp and cocktail sauce, the turkey was done. I lifted it from the oven. I had the serving dish out and was ready to get the stuffing out. I figured, I put in with my hand, that’s probably how you get it out…”Do I just use my hand?” I asked my mom. “Mmhmm,” she faintly replied. I didn’t know then, but looking back, it was the “mmhmm” that only a mother gives her child when she’s busied herself with something else, like setting the Thanksgiving table.
I reached my hand into the 300-something degree turkey. I’m pretty sure I’ve blocked that moment from my mind because it was so excruciating. Realizing what had just happened everyone was all hands on deck and soon my hand was under luke warm water and the endorphins kicked in. I’ve never been so relieved to look down and see skin on my hands.
*I would put a picture on the post but my mom lost her camera in our apartment that morning. It was recovered this past August as my roommate and I cleaned out our apartment to move.