Mommy Rotten is a stay-at-home mother of two wild and crazy guys, Frick and Frack. Lover of chocolate, boxed wine, and the “F” word, she’s the Mom who makes you feel better about your own mothering…by comparison. You can follow her on Twitter or Facebook.
Not too long ago, I blogged about turkey for American Thanksgiving. Mostly, I talked about the fact that the women in my family are cursed when it comes to cooking turkey. But, it was at Christmas that I first discovered that the curse had not skipped a generation as I had hoped, but had doomed me as well.
This picture of me here documents that fateful night.
I didn’t always hate Christmas. During those brief years between the time I moved out from home and the time I had kids of my own, the holiday season was the best time to party. The year that this picture was taken was no exception.
One of my friends, let’s call her Buffy, wanted to have a Christmas party. Buffy’s wealthy parents had gone to Europe for Christmas that year, leaving Buffy to watch their beautifully appointed, and now empty, home. This inspired her to throw the mother of all parties: a fancy-dress Christmas dinner complete with all the trimmings. We would do the food pot-luck style, only we’d get to eat it off the good china. Everyone would chip in a couple of bucks for the turkey.
The only problem was that no one had ever cooked a turkey before.
So I stepped up.
I mean, how hard could it be? A turkey is just a really big chicken. And I admit, I wanted to show off a bit. I was always a little too proud of my culinary skills. I also still had no idea that I was being haunted by Evil Turkey Demons.
Oh, I was aware of the turkey curse, but at that time I was more likely to put the blame on my mother. Don’t get me wrong, I love the woman. It’s just that she’s what my mother in-law would probably call a schlemiel: trouble just seems to follow her everywhere she goes. Also, curse or no curse, that woman cooks a kick ass turkey. I had at least learned from the best.
And I was excited to have the honor of cooking the turkey. I looked forward to impressing all my friends with a picture perfect bird like in the Norman Rockwell painting. I daydreamed about the appreciative “oohs” and “aahs” I would receive. I read cookbooks and magazine articles and even called my mother to pick her brain for all her best turkey tips.
The night before the party, I slept over at Buffy’s house so I could get up early and start prepping the bird. Everything was going well, and I felt totally confident, until I got a look at Buffy’s Mom’s fancy-schmancy wall oven. It looked expensive and complicated and the knobs were different from any of the piece-of-crap ovens my blue-collar upbringing had heretofore exposed me. I had never in my life, before or since, been so intimidated by a major appliance. I didn’t expect rich-people ovens to be so different from regular-people ovens. (Hint: they aren’t).
I decided to consult with Buffy on the matter.
“So I guess I just turn this knob to ‘bake’ right?” I asked.
“What? Oh no, you need to turn it to ‘broil’.”
That didn’t sound right.
“Really? Because I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to bake a turkey.”
“Trust me on this one.”
Ah, college kids. Amiright?
Now I know all of you can see where this is going. I have since learned that when Buffy says “trust me” that’s a red flag. In my defense, Buffy eventually became a politician which, I hope, is a testimony to her persuasiveness as well as to her ability to talk out of her ass.
So we popped the turkey in to “broil” and got ourselves ready for the party.
And it was a great party. We had a ton of food. Those who weren’t able to cook brought the alcohol. And because we were a bunch of college kids, there were plenty of “sandwiches” (see “How I Met Your Mother”).
It was shortly after this picture was taken when everything kind of went to shit.
I had been working so hard in the kitchen that my friend Jen offered to help with something, which was great because I was being invited outside for a “sandwich”. The turkey was (I thought) close to being done, so I asked her to mash the potatoes.
I came back inside just in time to see Jen absentmindedly pouring the chunkiest sour milk I had ever seen right into the potatoes.
“Stop! Stop! Stop!” I shouted, but it was too late.
“Oh, sick!”
“Gross!”
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry! I just grabbed that milk out of the fridge,” Jen apologised. Buffy was just walking into the kitchen right then.
“You didn’t use the milk in the fridge, did you? That milk went bad.”
“Are you serious? If you knew the milk was bad then why was it in there?!?” We were all laughing our asses off when we informed the rest of the party that there would be no mashed potatoes but at least the turkey would be ready soon.
Lies.
Because of course, when we tried to carve my Norman Rockwell creation, the imagined
“oohs” and “aahs” had turned into “oh nos” because the legs and the bottom of the turkey were still completely raw.
And this is when the rest of the party found out that I was stupid enough to listen to Buffy when she told me to broil instead of bake. Fortunately, by that time, everyone was so drunk and there was so much food, no one cared. It was a great joke that I never lived down.
When the turkey was finally served (at midnight), it was delicious.
