I didn't have to make a turkey this year, but I wanted to. At least, I thought I wanted to when I was at the store and saw a really pretty one. It was early in the day, and my kids were acting like angels AND it was on sale for uber cheap. So I bought it, manhandled all 28 pounds of it and two kids into the house, and then it sat in the fridge for five days "de-frosting". (Yep.) Having only ever made one (very dry) turkey, I read and read and read and finally decided to try brining. Back to the store for brine ingredients. I "forgot" about it one more day, and finally at 9:30 the following night I brewed a delicious brine. This is going somewhere, stay with me.
My fridge wasn't big enough for turkey and brine, so BACK to the store for ice, so I could turn an ice chest into the turkey's second-to-last-final-resting-place. Three stores later (they all closed at 10 you see) I had my ice and was headed home. The brine wasn't cool enough for the turkey, so I put my book-editing husband in charge. This was our conversation:
"Look at my eyes so I know you are listening".
"I'm looking. What can I do for you, love of my life? Angel of our home? Goddess of domecisity?" (It's my story, I'll tell it any way I want)
"This is a turkey. It is cleaned and ready to be brined. This is brine. (picture me pointing) This is a brining bag. I'm putting the turkey in the brining bag for you."
"Thank you, most wonderful mother of my children. What am I to do next?"
Right before you go to bed, please pour the brine over the turkey and tie a knot in the bag. Shake it and then place it in the ice chest with the ice."
"OK." (that part is actually verbatim)
Scene fades out, next we see the happy couple waking up with the alarm.
"How did brining the turkey go? Everything fit in the ice chest?"
"I can't, I don't have a gun. The turkey is still in the sink, isn't it."
And so the final resting place of what was to be the most magnificent bird in all post-Thanksgiving history ended up in the trash.
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