The Tale of Tammy the Turkey

by

For those of you who don’t know, my partner David lost his job the other day. Well, he didn’t so much lose it as they ripped it away from him. (Boo! HISSSSSS! If you need a fantastic video editor, let us know!) But that little melodrama got my mischief wheels a-spinnin.’ For the first time since my turn in the unemployment line, I picked up a Publix Weekly Deals booklet and began hunting for the best money-saving deals.

Imagine my delight to find that turkey was on sale for .59 cents a pound! Dog food isn’t that cheap! Hot diggity dog — my decision was made. I, Josh Miller, would march into Publix, buy a dirt-cheap bird, and feast like a king for pennies on the dollar. I practically bruised myself from all the back-patting.

My Sunday Plan was all set. I’d bake my bird, then prep all my ingredients and fixins for a “Leftover Palooza” — a series of recipes for Kitchen Mischief showing all the great things you could do with your Thanksgiving remnants. However, in my attempt to manufacture mischief, I ran headfirst into genuine mischief…

That bird was frozen solid. We’re talking an iceberg of poultry that could have pecked a hole in the Titanic. I dashed off to consult my friend Google, who confirmed the turkey packaging: My Big Cold Bird required a 6-8 hour spa treatment. Yes, Tammy (that’s the turkey) demanded 7 hours in cold (not warm!) water, changed out every hour on the hour. She was nagging for a pedicure, but I was like, “Bitch, you ain’t got no feet,” to which she would have had to nodded in agreement, but she also had no head. Consequently, communication was difficult. So I just gave her a bath.

Six years later, when Tammy was FINALLY finished with her spa treatment, it was on to the next step — which turned out to be a much more invasive procedure. If you’re sensitive, scoot along now. Tammy’s tale is about to get graphic.

After her Spa Treatment, it was time for Tammy the Turkey to visit the Lady Doctor. I always forget how gross this part is. If I did remember, I would buy gloves. But I did not. So I scrubbed in and prepared to do the dirty duty. Usually, it’s over pretty fast, but that stubborn bird was still icy inside, so instead of quickly removing the neck and getting Tammy back into a more ladylike position, I had to use both hands. Dear Lord it was so obscene.

Dear Lord — what happened to my neck?

Ten minutes later, Tammy’s procedure was complete. But the mischief was far from over. Tammy’s packaging clearly stated “Frozen Turkey with Neck and Giblets.” The problem was there were no giblets to be seen. So I got closer to that poor, violated bird.

Nothing. No bag of giblets, no icy giblets stuck to Tammy’s cavernous interior, no sneaky giblets hiding out under her neck flap. Tammy was Gibletless. I can’t help but feel sorry for her. Did the other turkeys make fun of her? Call her names? Tease her in the turkey locker room? Poor, sad Turner-Syndrome Tammy.

Aside from the nagging horror that either — A) I had missed the giblets and would end up baking their plastic bag into the turkey, resulting in some REAL mischief, or B) that I had gotten distracted and put the giblets somewhere random I wouldn’t notice until they started smelling, like the dryer or something — I was relieved. I know traditionalists and especially pretentious “Whole Animal” Foodies are all about eating the nasty bits, I say “No Thank You.” You can keep your organ snacks. Blech.

Bless Tammy’s heart (oops, nevermind, that was in the bag of Missing Giblets) (wait, does that make her the Tin Man?) (Would you stop with tangents and wrap up this damn post, please!) — she needed some pampering after her manhandling. So naturally I offered to give her a Butter Massage. Basically, I mixed unsalted butter with lots of salt, pepper, and minced garlic (add whatever herbs you like), then gave Tammy the best rubdown of her sad, gibletless life.

No photography allowed in the massage parlor.

I was thinking that Tammy was looking kind of pale, so I sent her to the tanning bed. I figured 3-4 hours in at 325-350 degrees would give her a nice browning that said “California Classy” instead of “Jersey Shore Trashy.” A little tin-foil umbrella half-way through kept her from getting too sunburned.

And then, after all of that drama, Tammy was done. And just look how beautiful she turned out.

Maybe beautiful's not the right word. Let's just go with "done."

After all that, quite frankly I’m worn out. Tune in next week and I’ll tell you about all of the fun culinary trips we took Tammy on. Well, parts of Tammy, anyway…

PS: Matthew is not dead. He has been traveling for work like a crazy person. We’re cooking up some fun together tonight, so look out for some fun posts from him to come!

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One Response to “The Tale of Tammy the Turkey”

  1. Karen Kazmorck Says:

    I actually laughed out loud (at work nonetheless) while reading this post. the [Dear Lord — what happened to my neck?] comment did me in! You are too funny Josh!

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