I gave the turkey drumstick a brisk yank to see if the bird was done. It should have been. I’d followed my normal procedure, but to my surprise, the meat was still slightly bloody.
I almost went into shock. I’m a self-proclaimed “master turkey roaster,” and now this? I’ve cooked all sizes of turkeys up to 25 pounds, and they’ve turned out beautifully with golden brown crisp skin and falling-off-the-bone succulent meat. But this year, I’d downsized and a tiny nine-pound bird gave me a run for my money.
Thanksgiving at my house this year was low-key. We were a small group, so I turned the oven temperature up, and we chatted for another hour or so while the turkey finished roasting.
As I gnawed at a wing, I tried to figure out why I’d almost screwed up the turkey and came to one conclusion. When I reduced the size, I became complacent, figuring it shouldn’t be difficult to “do” a teeny turkey that didn’t even weigh 10 pounds. I was wrong.
Meanwhile, another problem developed – a dying refrigerator. Several days before Thanksgiving, Dick noticed the interior wasn’t very cold. Uh oh.
I must add that this refrigerator owes us nothing. It’s worked for 29 years. We ordered a new one and kept the old one limping along as we waited for the new one. It keeps working as long as we periodically open and slam the door shut and start up the motor.
As a safety precaution, we set a big cooler on the deck and started using the small mini-fridge in the basement. I now pay close attention to the humming sound of a working refrigerator.
Meanwhile, I’ve also been coping with Mr. Magoo, my pug.
Pugs love to eat, and if they could talk would demand bigger meals. Even Magoo, at his mature age of 15, doesn’t seem to think I give him enough food. So he scrounges.
Floors are his primary targets. I was ultra-careful while chopping onions on Thanksgiving Day. I was even careful while chopping mushrooms, just to be safe.
But I wasn’t careful enough. The day after Thanksgiving, as I emptied a pack of beef jerky into my hand, something white fell to the floor. Magoo lunged for it. I slammed my foot down, but too late. He had it in his mouth.
“Spit it out!” I commanded, but I forgot that he can’t hear and so the command I’ve used all his life was futile.
We grappled briefly, and he swallowed. Then swallowed again. And gave me a triumphant look.
He had swallowed a desiccant packet. However, he seems to have no ill effects other than a short period of gastrointestinal issues. Mr. Magoo is lively as ever and looking forward to the Christmas holidays.
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