Nothing Could Possibly Go Wrong. Right?

Here is the whole shocking story of Val's first Thanksgiving.

It had to simmer on the back burner for a few days. How Val thought her goose was cooked. What a dodo she was. Her fear of eating crow. A glimpse into the seamy underbelly of Val's Thanksgiving turkey. And now...as the story takes wing...NO SNIPING!

I knew that I could not simply pick up a turkey out of the Save A Lot freezer bin and drive it home and pop it in the oven. I knew that. So I did some internet research courtesy of my estranged BFF Google, and calculated how long my Butterball would take to thaw. That's 24 hours per 5 pounds, you know. So my 16-pound turkey needed approximately three days and six hours to cool her drumsticks on the bottom shelf of Frig II. EBFFG also informed me that a thawed turkey could sit for one or two days in the refrigerator.

Yes, I had it all figured out. I bought my Butterball on Sunday around noon. I figured it would be ready for roasting by Wednesday evening. I had no intention of cooking it until Thursday, but I knew it would be good and ready and not frigid by Thursday. As your may recall, the zero hour was 5:00 o;clock for the feast. Then 4:00 o'clock when Genius changed plans slightly. No problem. Everything was under control.

On Monday evening, I poked Butterball. Still hard as a rock. Like The Rock. And Arnold Schwarzenegger and Lou Ferrigno in their prime. Like a turducken of The Rock, Arnold, and Lou all stuffed one inside the other. A RockSchwarzIgno. I figured I would put something under that hardbody as it thawed. But I had gotten home late from an appointment, so I put it off.

On Tuesday evening, I poked Butterball again. Barely pliable. Kind of like Jane Fonda, Jillian Michaels, and Jackie Warner all rolled into one. A FonMichNer. And it was still the RockSchwarzIgno on the bottom half. I figured I would put something under that solidbody as it thawed. But I stopped by Walmart for some last minute items, and The Pony drove us home, and it was getting late, so I put it off.

On Wednesday afternoon, I poked Butterball as usual. The bottom half was firm. Like Viggo Mortenson, John Stamos, and Liam Hemsworth stacked together in a panini press. A MortStamWorth. I figured I would put something under that firmbody as it thawed. But I had to make a chocolate pie, Hidden Valley Ranch Dip, boil two dozen eggs, bake a ham, and simmer a pot of green beans and potatoes. So I put it off.

On Thursday morning, I poked Butterball. Alas! My turkey was jiggly. It felt like my finger plunged into Delta Burke, Kathy Bates, and Roseanne wrestling around in child's blow-up swimming pool full of warm cream cheese. WITH NO SPANX! A DelKathAnne! AND THEY WERE INCONTINENT!

A pool of pinkish liquid sat brackishly on Frig II's glass bottom shelf.

"Pony! Quick! Get me a towel!"

He was on helper duty. Stationed on the long couch in the living room, at my beck and call. The Pony galloped to the hall closet and returned immediately with...a faded purple hand towel.

"NO! I need a big towel! A thirsty towel! Go get one! Get TWO!"

When he raced back, I made him fetch one of the two foil roasting pans. I lined it with a thirsty towel, and The Pony picked up Butterball and laid her on her new bed. Then we commenced to wipe out Frig II. I pulled the glass shelf out and bathed it in hot soapy water. I gave The Pony paper towels of various soapiness and had him wipe out the nooks and crannies of the plastic rim the shelf sits on.

"Did it get on anything else, Pony? You can get back in there, and see better than I can."

"No. We got it. Everything else looks okay."

So we did a load of towel laundry. Twice. And put Butterball back in Frig II for a couple of hours until roasting time. Let the record show that when rinsed in the sink before roasting, Butterball was still stiff inside, with the gizzard and liver frozen to her butt. Which is neither here nor there. Butterball was shoved in the oven quicker than the witchy plans for Hansel and Gretel.

Which brings us to the true horror.

"Pony, let's get the veggie tray ready. Bring me that bag of mini carrots from the second shelf. And that bag of broccoli/cauliflower/carrots from the crisper. It has thinner carrots. Genius likes them. So we'll have two sections of carrots, one of broccoli, one of cauliflower, one of green olives, and one of black olives. Let's see how they look the best. Orange across from orange. Green across from green, and black across from white. Wait a minuet! What's that on the broccoli bag? It's dripping! PONY! Put it in the sink! What IS that? Is that turkey juice?"

"No. We cleaned that all out."

"Go check."

"Um. There's a line of turkey juice just in the front of the crisper drawer. Just in the front. Everything else should be okay. You can use the broccoli and cauliflower, Mom. It's sealed in a bag."

"NO! Throw that away! And then wash your hands! I'm not using it. We'll just put the olives each in two sections. And get me the celery from the second shelf while I wash my hands. I don't have time to wash out the crisper until tomorrow. We shall not speak of this at the feasting table."

Of course The Pony let that cat out of the bag after dessert. No harm. No "fowl." No E. coli as of this writing.