Well that was a disaster!
Posted by thedarwinexception on November 24, 2006
Well, what an interesting damned day that was! Everything was a disaster from start to finish.
First off, I bought a 21 pound turkey because it was on sale a while back. I had it in the freezer. Took it out like Sunday and put it in the fridge. On Wednesday night, I took it out of the fridge just to make it sure it was all nicely unthawed, and thought “You know, this fucker’s kind of big. I better make sure I have a pan it will fit in.” I didn’t.
Send hubby to the dollar store Wednesday night to get a big aluminum roaster pan. He does.
Now, lesson number one, folks. Don’t buy an aluminum roaster pan at the dollar store. Go the extra 5 miles to Wal Mart if Price Chopper is closed, but don’t go to the fucking dollar store.
Thursday morning, put the turkey (thawed nicely) in the oven with all the stuffing all stuffed. Go back upstairs to watch the start of the parade. Wander downstairs to put in two loaves of banana bread. All is well.
Go downstairs to check on the progress of the banana bread, and the fucking dollar store pan has a leak. All the juice is now flowing into the bottom of the stove like a little fucking Gravy River. I’m pissed. I try to take the pan out of the oven, but that isn’t happening. There’s enough water still in the pan to make the damned thing weigh 30 pounds, and the cheap ass aluminum pan is caving in on itself wherever I grab the fucking thing, making more of the juice flow to the bottom of the stove. I might as well have used aluminum foil for all the strength this fucking dollar store pan has.
So I yell upstairs to hubby “Come Help Me!”
Now, as is usual, instead of coming downstairs when I yell “Come Help Me!” – he starts a fucking dialogue as if I had yelled upstairs “Talk to me! I’m fucking lonely down here!”
“Why baby? What’s the matter?”
So now I’m really pissed. Why can’t he just come downstairs when I yell “Come help me?” The fucking dogs would come if I yelled “Milo!” or “Brew!” Why can’t he be at least as fucking trained as one of the fucking dogs?
So I yell again “COME FUCKING HELP ME!”
Something in the tone of my voice must have convinced him I didn’t want to just talk, as I hear him start coming downstairs. Just at this time, the juice reached the level of the heating element and the grease caught fire. Now I have an oven fire.and I stand there screaming “My turkey! My turkey!”
About the same time as hubby gets halfway down the stairs and I scream, the smoke alarm goes off. This scares Brewster, the crippled dog who is coming downstairs with hubby, because he’s afraid to be left alone anywhere, and Brew tries to run and get back up the stairs to get away from the smoke detector. As he does, he trips hubby and hubby goes falling down the rest of the stairs. He falls to the bottom, and yells “Brew! You dumb fuck! Ow, ow, I banged my knee!” Never, of course, wasting an opportunity to play injured or sick.
I scream “Never mind that! Get the fuck up and come help me!”
So hubby comes into the kitchen, sees the oven on fire, and yells out “FUCK!”
Now, I don’t understand men. Or at least I don’t understand this fuckng man. I want to get the turkey out of the oven. I understand that the oven is on fire – but it’s a grease fire with limited fuel. It’s already burning out. Get the fucking turkey first, then put out the fire.
Hubby leans over and starts blowing on the fire.
I stood there looking at him for like 5 seconds, then I said “Get the fucking turkey out!”
He turns to explain to me (dialogue instead of action again) why he’s blowing on the fire, and the ever present tuke cap thing he wears on his head, probably dislodged a little in the fall, plops into the fire.
Now hubby starts screaming “My hat! My hat!” The same way I was screaming “My turkey! My turkey!” and he reaches into the fire to retrieve the hat. One wonders why he would do that for his fucking hat, but not the turkey but when I saw him reach into that oven for his hat, I said “No fucking way! Get the fucking turkey!”
Finally, realizing that he isn’t getting his hat until I get my turkey, he reaches in and gets the turkey out, and when he does, of course, some of the turkey juice spills again, falling onto the heating element, and we have another roaring fire episode, this time lighting the hat on fire. And when the hat catches on fire, the flames reach high enough so that the Banana bread catches on fire.
Hubby turns back around after safely putting the turkey on the kitchen island to see the hat in flames and he yells “Fuck! There goes my fucking hat!” and I say “Fuck your hat.”
I reach in to save the banana bread, blowing the flames out that are on the very top of it, and by now the fire has gone back out in the oven.
I inspect the turkey, and luckily the flames didn’t touch it. But now we have the smoke alarm going off, I have a kitchen full of smoke, an oven full of juice, a charred banana bread, and a turkey pan with a hole in it. I tell hubby to go smash the fucking smoke alarm.
Once he gets the smoke alarm to stop going off, I sent hubby to Price Chopper to get a heavier aluminum pan. And I spend the next hour cleaning out the oven so I can finish cooking the turkey.
The dogs got the charred banana bread, and luckily nothing else happened to ruin the day. Except for the fact that all day instead of the pleasant, nostalgic and comforting Thanksgiving smells of turkey and cinnamon and pumpkin cooking it smelled like a fucking char house.
Hubby promises that he is going to buy me a really nice huge turkey pan – with handles. I told him I’d buy him a new hat.
And how was your day?