Domesticity isn't for everyone

Hello folks. Between tea times, play dates and plots to reverse the demise of my favourite bookstore (R.I.P Book Warehouse) I have carved out time to write a post for you. Aka there was nothing of interest on television. And a happy Easter to all. Maybe we shouldn't rejoice just yet. Who knows what words will march out of these fingertips? Don't answer, it's rhetorical. The answer is me. I do. I have a plan of what to write today. Somewhat. I like to mix it up a bit between flying by the seat of my pants and having some sort of idea for the content. Frankly, I like to wear the pants with wings on the ass. Figuratively.

I am inspired by the star of our Thanksgiving...crap, I keep calling it that...Easter dinner. The turkey, and this year that bastard was done barbecue style, and might I say, friggin' delish. But then again, anything that hits the grill of that barbecue is likely to make me salivate. Who am I kidding? I am down with anything that I don't have to make. However, this short tale has to do with me in charge of making something. For others to ingest. That's right, Boyfriend trusted me alone in the kitchen to cook a turkey. Let's visit that page in our history.

Let's set the scene: My cramped kitchen, it was either springtime or autumntime. I want to wager a guess that the event took place in my pre-death phase. I would be less confused of the timeline if I only kept a diary. Hindsight, sheesh. After a quick consult of the photos (There are always photos of historical moments), if I were to judge by the state of my hair I would venture to say it was about two years ago. I was blonder and my lustrous hairs were much more unruly. Which if I may take an aside here, when I was sixteen and just had my wisdom teeth removed by a sadist, Muse came over to check on my state and to either paraphrase or quote exactly when I saw her she said, "Wow, orphan Annie." That is not something you say to somebody that has swollen cheeks and hasn't risen to straighten her mother's genes from her hair. You just don't. I suppose to be fair, I have gotten my fair share of jabs at Muse's expense. I digress, it was an attempt to illustrate the condition of my hair.

The reason I didn't do my hair the day the photo was taken was because I spent all day in that doll-sized kitchen. I feel like I need to repeat that to emphasize and help the disbelievers out there know that it wasn't a typo, I SPENT ALL DAY IN THAT DOLL-SIZED KITCHEN. Cooking. Sort of. One day, Boyfriend got himself one fun idea.

We should have a turkey dinner tomorrow with all the fixin's. (It was a random Tuesday)
I'm so in Boyfriend.
Great. I picked up a turkey at the store. You have tomorrow off, right?
...Yeah, so?
You can start the Turkey while I'm at work.
Beg pardon?
Don't worry, I'll talk you through it.

Talk me through it Boyfriend? I like turkey a whole lot less now. I mean, yes, it sounds simple, but many disastrous times are advertised with simplicity. For those out there that would like to "talk somebody through" making a turkey, keep these things in mind:

1)I cannot stress how very important it is to inform the turkey-preparer for what happens when you peel back the plastic that seals the bird when you purchase it. The statement Take off the plastic leaves much too much surprise for the cooking virgin. That damn poultry dripped like it was menstruating. Yeah, I was grossed out too. When one is taken aback by this, especially when one is not-a-so-good when it comes to blood in the first place, one wildly swings that turkey around as if trying to assist in post-feather flight. Well, in all honesty, one holds the turkey under its armpits and screams bloody murder when its life fluids pool on the cheap lick n' stick tile of the kitchen floor. That kitchen looked like it was a stage for a musical about a serial killer. OH! The way-so-far-off-Broadway-it's-in-a-different-country presentation of Sweeny Todd, the Demon Barber...if it took place in my kitchen.

2)Make sure you specify where to find the giblets. Is that what they're called? Giblets? Googled it, and yeah. I'm right. To my defense, giblets sound like a synonym for male gonads. It would be supremely embarrassing if I didn't fact check and giblets actually were the hangers-down. I did not have a good time diggin' around and getting my hand stuck in the neck hole. I'm sorry, but if Boyfriend directed me to reach into the hoo-ha I would have been spared a lot of grief.

3) Know that colours don't always help when explaining which seasonings to use. Boyfriend had a unique system in place for awhile where all of his spices and potions and leafy things were either in clear containers or clear Ziploc baggies...none with labels. I understand why he didn't feel the need to write what was what on them because he could tell just by looking at it, and I didn't touch the stuff. It's Boyfriend's voodoo cupboard, none of my business. So this random Tuesday when he instructed me to go in there and grab things for our leaky bird it was really a crap shoot. He told me the names of things and tried to describe its colour. To be frank though, poultry seasoning, cumin, cinnamon, paprika, bay leaves, that crap is all the same to me.

4) Predetermine measuring amounts. Boyfriend told me to use a lot of poultry seasoning. My idea of a lot is to coat that sucker, make sure that none of its skin is showing. I can do that...I did that. Shame that he didn't clarify sooner. I had to scrape that giblet-less bird down and turned my palms orange like I applied self-tanner to a "guido". I'm embarrassed that I just went there. Apologies. The point here: a couple pinches to me is not a lot. A lot is a paint job. Maybe a word like "dusting", or phrase like "amount of confetti a ninety-three year old would throw on New Years", to me that makes much more sense. A lot. Sheesh.

5) Don't assume anything.

After I put the bird in the oven my job was over. I don't know what I did while I waited for Boyfriend to come home and relieve me of my duties. Doddled around I bet, that sounds like me. When Boyfriend arrives, he smells the turkey and smiles that I've still got both my eyebrows.

How's the bird?
I don't know. It was fine when I put it in the oven. Smells good.
You didn't baste it?
No. You didn't tell me to.
Did you check on it at all?
No. You didn't tell me to.

I don't understand his surprise. I can't figure it out on my own people. My parents raised me to be a kept woman. Find a rich man and settle down, that's a direct quote from my childhood. Okay, that's a lie. I just don't cook. I don't have the patience or attention span for it. Sue me. That wasn't an invitation, I would appreciate if you didn't. Nobody in their right mind would represent me.

I think I lost my cell phone...

Oh, I should mention that when I said I spent all day in the kitchen, that was a lie. It was more like forty minutes of bumbling around with a bleeding chicken...turkey. Whatever. A bird is a bird. It was a canary for all I know. Maybe a toucan.

Here it is. My phone I mean. In the bedroom beside the charger. So close to getting it plugged into the wall. Damn attention span.

To conclude: Nobody died in a fire and parts of the turkey were still edible. I say we call that a win. In the photos I look pretty proud.

Time for tea,

K

Post Script: I feel that many of my posts can be summarized in a sentence. For example from this and a few other posts:

Boyfriend trusted me to cook a turkey and I couldn't follow his simple directions.
I procrastinated with writing because I couldn't find a specific mug in the mug cupboard.
The Bookends were over for a sleepover and witnessed Boyfriend hit me in the face with the stuffed bear that Mutt humps.

Maybe I should invest more time editing what I write. If you're still reading these words maybe you should take a step back and better prioritize your time. It's all just nonsense anyways.








I love nonsense.