Our usual Thanksgiving weekend scenery.Instead of the usual "drive to Hudson, drive to Strongsville, rinse and repeat" routine, we got to actually have a somewhat relaxing long weekend. I say "somewhat" because that whole roasting a turkey and preparing a feast thing is kind of exhausting, if no one's told you yet. On advice from my mom, I started prepping on Wednesday, and thank goodness I did, because I would have been a hot mess come Thursday if I had to everything then. Remember this?--
Yeah, we try to avoid that. So Thursday was actually pretty manageable and I didn't run into too many issues. I would love to say that my success was due to the fact that I am a master chef who may very well have my own Food Network show one day, but alas, I must admit that my success was due to my own personal Butterball Hotline (also known as Mom). I must have called her no less than 27 times in 24 hours to ask questions--"Do I pour out the brine when the turkey's done sitting in it?" "What do I do with the turkey neck again?" "Run through that gravy recipe with me one more time." "What does a foil tent look like?" "How much wine can I safely consume and still be coherent enough to get dinner on the table?" Okay, so maybe I didn't really ask the last question there, but if I had, I guarantee she would have had the answer.
While I prepared dinner (with the help of Renee and Kim), Tom and Mike celebrated Thanksgiving in typical male fashion--by drinking beer, watching football and playing video games. They did pause long enough to take Libby on a wagon ride, though they couldn't bring themselves to leave their beers behind.
We had a near catastrophe when we went to carve the turkey because the edges of the turkey were pink, even though I had cooked the thing for 2 1/2 hours AND checked the temperature with an official Pampered Chef thermometer. Mom and Google reassured us that pink edges are fine, so long as the breast temperature is 161 degrees. Catastrophe avoided. Almost. Because then Tom sliced his finger while trying to carve the kind-of-pink turkey. I was fairly certain that it would be just my luck that my husband would be one of those people who goes to emergency room on Turkey Day due to a kitchen accident, but a tightly wrapped paper towel and Band-Aids saved the day.
All in all, everything turned out just fine and we spent the hours after dinner lounging around watching the four (yes, four) dogs and Libby play. They apparently didn't get the memo that Thanksgiving evening is reserved for napping.
We ventured out to a few stores on Black Friday, but didn't buy anything more than some new vacuum bags (although Tom and Mike spent plenty of time scoping out TVs). After this weekend, I know I'll be hard pressed to talk Tom into traveling over Thanksgiving weekend ever again and I can't say I blame him. If only I could get Mom to cook my dinner for me next year...
Yeah, we try to avoid that. So Thursday was actually pretty manageable and I didn't run into too many issues. I would love to say that my success was due to the fact that I am a master chef who may very well have my own Food Network show one day, but alas, I must admit that my success was due to my own personal Butterball Hotline (also known as Mom). I must have called her no less than 27 times in 24 hours to ask questions--"Do I pour out the brine when the turkey's done sitting in it?" "What do I do with the turkey neck again?" "Run through that gravy recipe with me one more time." "What does a foil tent look like?" "How much wine can I safely consume and still be coherent enough to get dinner on the table?" Okay, so maybe I didn't really ask the last question there, but if I had, I guarantee she would have had the answer.
While I prepared dinner (with the help of Renee and Kim), Tom and Mike celebrated Thanksgiving in typical male fashion--by drinking beer, watching football and playing video games. They did pause long enough to take Libby on a wagon ride, though they couldn't bring themselves to leave their beers behind.
We had a near catastrophe when we went to carve the turkey because the edges of the turkey were pink, even though I had cooked the thing for 2 1/2 hours AND checked the temperature with an official Pampered Chef thermometer. Mom and Google reassured us that pink edges are fine, so long as the breast temperature is 161 degrees. Catastrophe avoided. Almost. Because then Tom sliced his finger while trying to carve the kind-of-pink turkey. I was fairly certain that it would be just my luck that my husband would be one of those people who goes to emergency room on Turkey Day due to a kitchen accident, but a tightly wrapped paper towel and Band-Aids saved the day.
All in all, everything turned out just fine and we spent the hours after dinner lounging around watching the four (yes, four) dogs and Libby play. They apparently didn't get the memo that Thanksgiving evening is reserved for napping.
We ventured out to a few stores on Black Friday, but didn't buy anything more than some new vacuum bags (although Tom and Mike spent plenty of time scoping out TVs). After this weekend, I know I'll be hard pressed to talk Tom into traveling over Thanksgiving weekend ever again and I can't say I blame him. If only I could get Mom to cook my dinner for me next year...
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