170 degrees of separation (before I ripped that turkey to shreds)

"Don't forget to cut off the plastic wrap from your ham," my friend Lee reminded me as I stopped by his house to pick up a pumpkin pie and cookies that his wife, Cathy had made for me. Ha ha. "Mom, Grandma and Grandpa left you a message," Sydney hollered as I listened to my father's voice reminding me to remove the giblet bag from the turkey. Hmmmm...it seems I have established an unwanted culinary reputation for myself. Perhaps deservedly so, I thought to myself later as I debated which angle of the bird would be considered "breast-side up."


"What's wrong," my husband asked later as I realized that my carefully orchestrated meal was out-of-tune and out-of-whack. My side-dishes were ready to go while the star of the show stubbornly refused to hit 170 degrees. Meanwhile, out on the table, my molded butter turkey was beginning to sweat. "I know how you feel," I hissed as my house-full of guests patiently waited for me to conduct this meal to its grand finale. "It's going to be fine," Brad said encouragingly as I debated cranking the oven up to broil, "Every holiday has its little glitches." "No, you don't get it," I glared back at him, "I plan to Norman Rockwell the hell out of this meal." He stopped me before I could take a propane torch to the turkey.

It finally did come all together. Soon all the guests were gathered around our celebratory table and thanks were given. "I don't know how you did this," one of my visitors remarked. I thoughtfully considered this statement, testing it for sarcasm or irony before declaring it sincere. I smiled as I watched my husband gleefully lob the head off my butter turkey before answering. "It was no sweat."