Here's the thing; I really don't have a funny turkey story. Should I make one up, or better, let San have the honors? I think that's the way it's got to be, because when I drove up to our new flagship supermarket, offered my last name, I was handed the perfect turkey (organic, range-runner, only listened to virgin-planted grain swishing in wind all its life, etc.). So all I could do was pick up beer (for once it was fresh and on sale), locate the old mother drooling in the whisky aisle, and head home. The turkey was inexpensive as well. What was I to do? Beg them to screw something up so I had a story to tell?
Anyway, the brining (here might be the story). Added crushed pepper this year. Then at the first flicker of dawn I realized that with my horrible dyslexic math inability that the damn bird needed to come out of the brine RIGHT THEN, not at the comfortable 10 o'clock as I'd planned. So I rose from the warm bed and staggered naked downstairs, clumped into the frozen shop and got the bird in brine and lobster pot to the kitchen sink. [Story only continues after San's promised photos.]
Hey, here's a picture of our house with the fresh paint job. Every year at Thanksgiving my ritual is to walk around my house with a beverage and examine how much work I managed to achieve over the year. This year might feel fairly guiltless.
My best to all hobos everywhere.
