Poor Judgement Leads to Turkey Mishap

I’ve always loved the idea of hosting a dinner party and what is Thanksgiving, if not the ultimate dinner party? I practically begged my family to let me host the first year my husband and I were married. We lived in the crappiest apartment in PG County, Maryland, but I was determined to throw the best Thanksgiving ever.

The trouble started when I went to bed the night before the big day with a tickle in my throat. When my husband suggested canceling, I refused. We’d already purchased a twenty pound fresh turkey and everything else one would need to cook an elaborate meal for a party of nine. There was no going back now.

The next morning I woke up very early, sneezing uncontrollably. I drove straight to the pharmacy and asked for the strongest cold medicine they had, the kind where they make you show your identification.

The stuff was good for twelve hours, but I took an extra one just to make sure. I wanted to suppress my apparent cold symptoms so I could cook the feast without making anyone sick.

I came home really amped up, trying to prepare everything to come out at the same time. First, the bird. This turkey was comically large, like the one Mr. Bean got stuck on his head.

My husband had to help me wrestle it into submission so I could butter it and add the lemons and the herbs. My mother in law had bought us one of those electric roasting ovens that is plugged in separately to free up the real oven for the side dishes.

It was a great invention. It came with a booklet. In the booklet was a little chart of directions for roasting a variety of meats. I remember glancing at the chart to set the time and temperature dials. Then I closed the lid and forgot about the turkey while I worked on the potatoes and stuffing and balsamic glazed carrots. My mind was racing, but my sinuses were clear as a bell.

Our families started to arrive, commenting on the delicious smell of turkey in the air. But by then I was a nervous wreck, convinced that something was wrong. Was I being paranoid?

I realized too late that I had set the roaster oven to 165 degrees, which is the internal temperature that the bird should reach to signify that it’s done.

I wasn’t so much cooking the turkey as giving it a nice relaxing day at the spa!

My family encouraged me to call the Butterball Hotline to see if there was something we could do to save the bird. The nice lady on the phone asked me a few questions, and based on my answers, determined that I’d missed the window of opportunity to adjust the heat. I’d have to throw it away or I’d definitely give everyone food poisoning.

I started sobbing. Everyone tried to console me, but I was whacked out of my mind on pseudoephedrine and lack of sleep.The emotions just kept coming.

My sister in law offered to go to Boston Market for a replacement turkey. All they had left was meatloaf, so that’s what we ate. Everyone laughed it off and enjoyed the side dishes which seemed to come out alright. We can’t all be Martha Stewart.

Then the final indignity was hoisting this twenty pound biological weapon into the dumpster. Part of me wanted to get right in there with it. I felt so ashamed. It wasn’t the end of the world, but It would be years before I’d try hosting again.