Well Done- November 26, 2015
My husband woke up Thanksgiving morning with a sparkle in his eye and some extra swagger. It was swagger fueled by peanut oil and propane. We did no basting, we did no roasting. Greyson was gonna fry the hell out a turkey this year.
I giggled at his enthusiasm and swooned at him in his flannel and denim. I thought he looked particularly fetching out on our driveway, beer in hand, eyes never moving from the blue flame he had so carefully created. He warned me about oil splatters as I took his picture.
He had researched. He had seasoned. He had massaged and pampered this bird the night before. 40 minutes was the goal. 40 minutes in the fryer to achieve the golden sparkle that would ensure moist poultry. I was in the kitchen when he stuck his head in the door from the garage. “Oh, my God!” I wasn’t prepared for what he plopped on the counter.
We think the coup de gras for this bird may have been the 42 or 43 minutes in the fryer. We may never know. It actually wasn’t that bad. We salvaged it. After we peeled off the charred skin the meat was okay. A little dry for a fried turkey, but not inedible.
He laughed, but his eyes told the story of a sad defeat. Defeat on a day in late November we’ll remember as a really fun Thanksgiving with our friends. Greyson said the bird looked “like Satan’s butthole.” See, he did cook the hell out of a turkey.