Too Many Cooks Spoil The Roadkill

I am not having a good day. It all started when I got up this morning. Go figure! I planned to make some potato salad, and another Oreo cake, because the Veteran was coming out to cook his wild turkey in a vat of boiling oil. HH was the mastermind of this plan. That will probably tell you all you need to know. But wait! I would like to elaborate.

First of all, I had to wash a pile of dishes before I could boil the eggs and potatoes for the potato salad. In the midst of the dish-washing, both boys wanted some cereal. #2 son got to the kitchen first, and was contentedly munching away on his fake Cap'n Crunch from Aldi's (a real treat, since most of their cereal comes from Save-A-Lot) when big bully #1 arrived. "Here, get this out of here. You're in my place!" #2 said he was done anyway, but #1 commanded him to dump his sugary milk to the dogs & cats. He picked up the bowl, and let go before #2 had his hands on it. Of course it spilled all over the floor. Sugary milk is a pain to clean up, because even though you think you've got it all, it stays sticky. I made the boys clean it. They took about 10 minutes.

Then I saw that HH, who had bought bananas while at the store for his mass quantities of vegetable oil, had placed the bananas in my graham cracker pie crust. It cracked. Which was not a great tragedy, because I had no plans for a pie today. Apparently, HH could not move the brown bananas off the banana holder. Which is perhaps a good thing, because he has broken two banana holders since July. But it's a bad thing, because he will stop eating the bananas at a certain degree of brownnes, but neglects to mention it, or to throw them away. He must be a collector, like those old ladies who can never get enough cats. Only their cats don't slowly
decompose on the kitchen counter. Much.

I had just gotten into the shower when I heard #1 son bellow that I should see what Dad had brought home. One year, he went to town for soda and a donut, and came back with an air hockey table. So I thought it might be something good. But no. The boy said, "Dad brought home the Save-A-Lot sign." Hmm...upon exiting the shower, I saw that HH had already put the sign to use. He had nailed it to the side of the barn. The side facing the house. #1 son further reported that HH had TWO signs, and that the Save-A-Lot people were glad to get rid of them. I guess so. No trash-hauling fees. Now I can look at the barn and fondly remember my OH SO PRETTY experience from last New Year's Day.

In case you are a new reader here at the Mansion, you may not understand the OH SO PRETTY mystique. That is doubtful, though, because I hardly ever get any new readers. Well, that is not quite true, because I get those people looking for "how to make crystal meth ice using gun blue and charcoal" and "sissified guy in panties", but they generally don't stick around to become regulars. So if you haven't heard the original SO PRETTY tale, here it is.

While gazing at our new barn logo, I discovered #1 son had a big wet dog-snot looking spot on his hoodie. And his shoes were soaking wet with mud and unknown fluids. I forbade him to come in the house, which lasted all of 3 seconds in his faulty short-term memory, because he traipsed in right behind me, yanked open the refrigerator door, and knocked out a mini can of peaches in heavy syrup and a small, squatty bottle of Diet Coke. He proceeded to grab a glass out of the cabinet, because dishes don't stay done long in this house, and pour himself some cold water from the pitcher in the fridge. This was not cold enough for him, so he also wanted ice from the freezer. He left, but my joy was short-lived, because he returned carrying a case of vegetable oil. "What's this doing on the picnic table?" he quizzed.

If I had asked the boy to carry in a case of vegetable oil, I never would have heard the end of it. But here he was, dragging it in unrequested. "That is for your dad and the Veteran to cook the
wild turkey." "Oh." He took it back outside.

Which brings me to the final chapter of the story (I'm sure you are hoping), in which HH actually cooks the turkey. And I'm sure you know it is not that simple. But I must fill you in on some more details first. Stop yawning! Who else posts every day, huh? Get over it!

I had told HH that I needed to pick up some medicine before 2:00. He said that I should go around 12:00, and call as I was starting home, and he would dunk the bird. I finished up the potato salad around 11:45, after using #1 son as a taste-tester, which was a big mistake, as the boy loves pepper, and the stuff is so spicy I can't even eat it now.

I called from town. Little did I know, the Veteran had not brought the turkey-cooker as promised. I returned home at 1:15 to find HH and the Veteran with a big boiling pot and a little propane grill. You know the kind of grill. It was about the size of a hibachi. Which is not the same as a huarache, which is a Mexican sandal, not a Japanese grill, but could be the same size if the Mexican has really big feet. Anyhoo...the new plan was to cut the turkey into 4 pieces, and boil it in oil in the pot over the hibachi. Which did not seem like such a good plan to me, because I thought the whole point of deep-frying a turkey was that the high temp seals the juices inside the skin. The skin which would be cut if the turkey was chopped up. And I don't think the oil can get hot enough in a boiling pan, or else why would people buy those turkey-cookers if they could just boil it up on the stove?

By 2:15, the oil was still not hot enough, and HH and the Veteran were using welding torches to add to the propane heat. Yeah. The boys were starving, so I fed them some chicken nuggets. Around 3:15, HH came in with a piece of something dark brown for me to taste. I should have known better. It tasted like old fish. HH said that must be the oil. Whatever. I knew I did not want any roadkill turkey that had been boiled over a welder's torch. They ate it, though. And HH even ate the potato salad.

You might want to make a Note to Self: Don't eat roadkill turkey cooked by hillbillies over a welder's torch.