I will freely admit that I sometimes don’t think things through as thoroughly as I should. But this isn’t entirely my fault.

Last Friday I found frozen turkeys on a mad sale at the grocery store. If you’re not in the know, 59 cents a pound for a turkey is a good damn deal. So I bought a turkey and brought it home and put it in the fridge to defrost.

And defrost, and defrost.

This morning I pulled it out, since today was really the only day this week I had time to fix a turkey and its accouterments for dinner. And when I say “time,” I mean “I had to cook this turkey today before it went bad and I felt guilty about wasting an entire turkey.” Anyway, it was still largely frozen.

This leads to an important question. What the hell is happening in the world of turkey processing that makes a turkey remain frozen nearly a week after it leaves the freezer? I ask you. It’s unsettling.

Vegetarians, just stop reading now. I beg you.

Anyway, I sliced open the wrapper, held the turkey by the wings, and, in a delicate little dance, balanced its legs in the plastic bag-lined drain of my sink so that I could steady it as I washed off the ice. Good to go, right? Oh, fudge. The giblets. The everloving giblets. Seriously. Sweet Jesus, the giblets.

I would love to meet the person who said, hey, let’s boil this bird’s internal organs until they have all the appeal of disemboweled intestines and then chop them up for human consumption. I would ask them what in the world they were thinking. I also would happily pay more for a giblet-free turkey. But that’s beside the point. The point is, the giblet bag was trapped inside the bird, frozen to the sides. I managed to pry it loose, cringing all the while lest my finger puncture the bag and I find myself knuckle-deep in a tangle of gizzard and heart (because, while the bag was frozen to the turkey, the giblets were, oddly enough, defrosted and quite squishy). I then realized that I still had to pull out the neck. And the neck was…you guessed it…frozen to the inside of the turkey. After a week of defrosting in the fridge.

So there I am, elbow-deep in a still-semi-frozen turkey, tugging at the slimy and recalcitrant neck, trying to keep the four-year-old from hearing the profanity, when it hits me how ridiculous this whole situation is. Why the hell didn’t I just buy some chicken breasts? I can cook, I can bake, I can write and edit and proofread, and I can fold laundry…I have nothing to prove by cooking a turkey on a Thursday in the wee days of October. Anyway, the neck finally came free and went into the trash. With the giblets.

I don’t know what my issue is, but I seriously underestimated how long it would take to cook this thing. We didn’t have dinner until 8 tonight, and as I was carving the turkey, I began to wonder if it was done. It was, I know it was, but I felt the need to put it back in the oven for a while. Dry turkey beats a salmonella-laden turkey, any day of the week. And as I was trying to juggle the turkey, along with mashed potatoes, gravy, stuffing, Brussels sprouts, etc., etc., etc., the boy was begging for attention, I was hot, I was in a rotten mood, and I was yelling a little too much. And the mixer went belly-up in the middle of mashing the potatoes.

Oh, and my husband was “taking a shower,” which I have learned is a euphemism for “nice relaxing nap.”

So, blah, blah, blah, I now have something like 10 pounds of dry leftover turkey in the fridge, I’m kind of miserable, and I realize that I should have chucked the turkey, ordered a pizza, and had a much more enjoyable night. Lesson learned.

This is why I don’t host Thanksgiving at my house, ever.

Gobble, gobble.

Advertisements