We arrived, and I went immediately to work making more sangria. I knew it would be needed.
I also stole a glance at the big electric roaster thing on the range top. Inside it was a pallid-looking turkey; utterly devoid of seasoning and color. My bowels constricted.
JewelrySlut was put to work cutting cheese. In the spirit of my mother’s kitchen, she was cutting up a block of cheese with a steak knife…and no board. She was cutting on the counters.
“What are you doing? Is that counter even clean?”
“BWAWK! I think it’s clean”
JewelrySlut, just cut away…her lifeless eyes telling the rest of the story.
Feeling off, I went to the porch and was able to lie down for 3 minutes under a fan before the masses came out. Chips, vegetables, dogs…they all came out and disrupted my rest.
“When do you want to change that fan?”
“Ummm…now? Might as well do it now” (Seeing that I don’t know when I’ll be ready to make another trip here to replace a ceiling fan.
Into the garage I went to get the new ceiling fan for their room. My father, watching me walk past him, holding a box the size of a shipping container, flew into a rage. I just continued upstairs. My mother emerged with the tools I’d apparently need; a busted up DeWalt and a set of mis-matched screwdrivers.
I went to work disassembling the fan while they 2 of them swore at each other. I was apparently WAY in the wrong for asking NoGoodFather to cut the power to the room. Silly me…I don’t work hot on ceiling fans. I know… I’m a pansy.
The install went reasonably well. I’ve never worked under suck pressure; NoGoodFather’s thousand yard stare just ripped through me. As we neared completion, a ruckus from downstairs indicated that the “rest of the family” had arrived.
I finished up the fan and joined everyone on the porch. The porch groaned.
I maybe lasted a minute before I needed a drink.
The house now smelled of turkey.
Other foodstuffs were making their way to the counters. Eggplant Parm, macaroni and cheese, the London broil I’d be grilling, and a tray of limp brown things. An exploratory poke indicated that I was looking at previously-fried cauliflower and mushrooms. I could only assume that they needed to be reheated because to serve such food to people would be a crime.
The turkey was proclaimed done. The pokey thing had popped. The turkey was white. We concluded that it had, essentially, been steamed.
The sides were tossed into the oven while I fired the meat out on the grill.
I still had to contend with the turkey.
My mother does not believe in cutting boards of knives. I bring my own for any occasion when I may need to cook. But, I refused to do so yesterday in protest to the menu’s absurdity.
Meat cooked, I attacked the turkey. Frick and Frack, my less than able bodied assistants, were banging into each other and dropping food on the floor. I managed to send a wing flying across the room where it landed with a satisfying “plop”. Wiped of dog hair, it was placed on the platter. I more or less shredded the poor bird. I had a tiny board and a bread slicer. Not exactly the tools of the trade.
The meat was too rare.
We sat down to eat. The “family” loved the reheated vegetables. My stupid brother ate the turkey.
Later in the evening, there was more polenta cake.
I had the wine instead.
Again, thanks for letting me soil your wall.