“A Martha Stewart Thanksgiving” – The Lies and Carnage

 

It’s that time of year again where gluttony is considered vice chic and everyone expects the day to be reminiscent of the front cover of the 1953 Thanksgiving issue of “The Saturday Evening Post.”  Hosts and Hostess have spent days preparing the menu, decorating, and coordinating guests lists and responsibilities for this most significant of days.  We seek out the perfect recipes for the most important menu item; the turkey.  The turkey has become iconic with this festive holiday and therefore it is crucial that the host/hostess must ensure it’s perfection.  For days we have envisioned carrying this majestic bird on a elegant platter worthy enough to serve royalty.  Guests are overcome with emotion as they realize they are in a moment in time that will be captured in their hearts and likely become a keepsake in their portfolio of memories.  For that moment, the world becomes a better place.  All thanks to the expertise of world-renowned mentors of cooking that coach us, encourage us, and give us delightful visual aids, such as the one above, that serve as the finish line to an exhausting culinary journey.  With this inspired confidence, we know that we can’t fail.   

However . . . .

For the past four hours I have been on a basting schedule that was obviously written by someone with OCD.  Helpful note:  open the roasting pan lid away from your face when attempting to baste.  Otherwise, you will receive a searing herbal facial that will make your guests think you have rosacea.  Which each basting, I had a growing concern regarding the “ascetic” of my bird.  It began to look more and more like an argument against the lab testing of animals.  Me being the cock-eyed optimist that I am chose to believe the end result would be what the all-wise yoda of Cooking Light promised me.  Finally the time had arrived . . .

I pull the roaster from the oven

open the lid (opposing direction)

the steam clears 

 

 

 

I ask you . . . does this look ANYTHING like the picture above . . . I think not!  I obviously bought the edition written by a chef from the Hannibal Lector Culinary Institute. 

I can hear it know

“Oh I see Jeff is a supporter of the Tennessee Road Kill legislation.” 

The last time I saw something like this was in 8th grade biology class and I was holding a scalpel.  My only chance is to hurl this bird carcass at my guests as they come in because that is the only way this neanderthal pigeon autopsy is going to make an impression. 

(Sigh)

Oh well, I guess I should start hacking away at this animal so it can be presented in a way that doesn’t induce vomiting. 

There’s always next year . . .

I’m ordering out.