Double-Breasted

My lack of cooking expertise has long been something my family (or more specifically, my mom and sister) have given me grief over (in the most lovingly, humorous of ways, of course!)  Why … I couldn’t even successfully cook pasta when my sister and I were rooming together in college!

It was only within the last couple of years, that I’ve come to really enjoy cooking, given the time I have available and the necessity for my husband and I to have a healthy diet. (Three is a Magic Number)

Which is why I was excited when my parents agreed to let Keith and I host Thanksgiving this year.  Our menu consisted of lots of “healthy” options.  Tasty side dishes which are good for the body and tasty to the tongue!  Baked carrots, spinach salad, honey cinnamon baked sweet potatoes.  Yes, mom can bring her stuffing!  It’s the one bit of carby-ness I’ll allow on my table (not to mention, it’s just about my favorite thing about Thanksgiving).  But aside from that, we’re going to avoid the carb loading at all costs (or as much as we can because … stuffing.)

As for dessert, we won’t have the usual THREE pies (pumpkin, pecan and coconut).  Nope!  I’ll make a lighter dessert.  A fluffy little number with cool whip and pumpkin pie filling.  Not exactly fat-free, but certainly not the plethora of sugary-filled baked goodness that normally adorns our family’s Thanksgiving table.

Keith is a huge fan of the smoked turkey.  Mind you, we don’t own a smoker.  And personally, I’m not one to look all over the 7^th largest city in the country to find someone who will do the smoking.  And you know what?  Our local grocery store sells smoked turkeys that suit everyone just fine.

Last week, as I drafted my grocery shopping list (because not only do I take much care in planning our weekly menu, but Alzheimer’s runs in the family), I dutifully indicated the need to pick up a slab of poultry sizeable enough for our smaller gathering; both of Keith’s kiddos and their families were out of town. 

In store, I googled how big of a turkey was needed to feed five mouths.  Google said to allow 1.5 lbs. per person, yielding enough for cherished leftovers.

Okay … 5 x 1.5 = 7.5.

In search of an 8-pound smoked turkey, I turned the tags on bird after bird.  There were smaller birds, weighing around 4.29 lbs. and then the larger variety, weighing 10 lbs. or more.

I decided on 2, 4-lb.-ish birds, ensuring sufficient leftovers for everyone, rather than a 10-pounder that would’ve ended with leftovers being thrown out.

The location of our gathering was changed from our home to my parents’ home.  Leaving mom to cook her traditional Thanksgiving meal (the one that includes ALL the carbs!).  She asked me to bring the spinach salad, along with the two turkeys. 

And she informed me she had only ordered two pies this year:  a pumpkin pie because it’s my son’s favorite and a coconut pie because it’s my husband’s favorite.  I’m chopped liver.

Wednesday morning, Keith says that the two turkeys sitting in the fridge certainly look bigger than 4.3 pounds.  He pulls the tag on each and sees that one weighs 5.87 pounds and the other, 5.71 pounds. 

HUH?

“No, No!”, I say, “They’re just over 4 pounds each.  Let me see that!”

And sure enough, the tag shows they are $4.29 per pound.  

4 dollars and 29 cents.

Oh, good grief!  So let’s take the bigger one and call it done.

Wednesday night (as in … the Wednesday night before Thanksgiving after the grocery store has closed and is surely sold out of all the turkeys), Keith pulled the chosen bird from the refrigerator to see how long it would take to warm it up.  And thus, would allow us to determine exactly how early we needed to get up in order to make the almost two-hour trek to the ranch and have the turkey in the oven in time for lunch.

He reads the cooking instructions.

“Heat oven to 350º and remove all packaging material on the turkey breast.  Add approximately ½ cup of water to the pan or just enough …”

WHAT????  Did you just say TURKEY BREAST?  Let me see THAT!



And there, tucked into the crease of the tightly-packaged bundle, are the words “Turkey Breast”.

He looks at me.  Stunned.  “And here I was,” he says, “all excited at the prospect of having not two, but FOUR, turkey legs to devour this year!”

He just knows that I was on my phone and distracted while shopping.  I did make a phone call, but only while I was waiting in the checkout line.  I really just don’t have any excuse.

As Keith drives to the ranch, I call my mom to make my confession.  Knowing that my dad likes dark meat, and realizing how easy it is to dry out a turkey breast, I tell her,

“I think I just ruined Thanksgiving.”

I explain to her the chain of events leading to the discovery of my error.  She chuckles ever so slightly before saying, “I’ll call you back.  I’m on the other line with your sister.”  She never called me back.

Upon arrival, as I’m preparing to put the turkey breast into the oven, mom politely apologizes for not having returned my call.  Of course, she felt compelled to share the story of my blunder with my sister, the two of them sharing a rather good laugh together, I’m quite certain of course, at my expense. 

My sister says to her, “You know … this is all on you.  You just never showed her what a turkey looks like.”  

Like the good-natured ribbing I receive over my dislike of peaches (Just Peachy), this will undoubtedly become a family joke for years to come.

My mother's failure to contain her laughter likely the reason she wouldn’t return my call.

We enjoyed a scrumptious Thanksgiving meal complete with turkey breast, spinach salad, mashed potatoes, stuffing, corn, green beans, cranberry sauce (the canned variety, of course!) and dinner rolls.  I dutifully filled my plate, mixing my mashed potatoes and corn together, the way my dearly-loved Opa showed me to when I was a little girl.  And I had seconds of said mashed potatoes & corn and stuffing, of course!

And there was pie for dessert.  Pumpkin, Coconut, and a Crown Royal-infused Pecan my son picked up.  Oh!  And a poppyseed cake that my cousin had brought over.  


I know you’re wondering, “Crown Royal-infused Pecan Pie???”  It was To. Die. For.

The turkey breast was moist and delicious.  Even my dad and husband appeared to be happily stuffed.  Maybe Thanksgiving wasn’t ruined after all.

Although … 24 hours later and Keith is still bemoaning the fact that he didn’t get a single turkey leg. 

In my defense, on all other meat packaging, the weight of the product is ALWAYS on the left side of the label.  ALWAYS.  It just so happens that the label on the turkeys show the price per pound on the left and the weight on the right.

That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Just Peachy

It’s a rare thing, indeed, for a person to NOT like peaches.  I know.  In fact, I think I’ve only ever met one other person who doesn’t like peaches.  Actually, two someones.

How can I not like peaches? 

It began when I was a child.  Canned peaches were a family favorite.  And they were regularly served on our dinner table (and by regularly, I mean nightly – or at least that’s how I recall it – the trauma still fresh in mind).  Quite simply, to me, canned peaches smelled like the most odiferous of … wait for it … stinky feet. 

And that’s where my dis-love of peaches started.

In addition to the pungent odor that didn’t quite agree with my stomach, the slimy goo in which said canned peaches were contained simply made me feel all icky inside.  It was thick and runny.  Snot-like in its existence.  Covering the peaches and making them jiggle about in the same glass bowl that my mother always put the peaches in.  Canned peaches fall in the same category as oysters, as far as I’m concerned.  All ooey and gooey and … ugh.  Just.  Ugh.  And no, I don’t like oysters either.

How the rest of my family could practically inhale the things after dinner, the slimy goo happily dripping down their chins, I have no idea.  Perhaps I was adopted.  (Kidding!  They didn’t allow a single drop of said slimy goo to miss their mouths.  I also might be kidding about being adopted.)

Fresh peaches?  Absolutely.  Not.

Yes, I agree, they are certainly different than the canned variety.  And I know people love the feel, the smell, the taste of the luscious fruit.  Not to mention the nutritional value, what with all the antioxidants and such.

My father had peach trees in the yard.  The deer and squirrels LOVED them.  The proof of which was the disgusting remnants left scattered about the yard.  And which made an even more disgusting mess every time I mowed the yard (and no, I was not about to pick up the leavin’s before I hopped on the mower! Ewwwwww!)

During the summer, the height of peach season, we often drove over an hour to a little town in the Texas hill country, that is renowned for its peach crop.  My mother would load up boxes of them.  I, of course, wasn’t much help.  And then I was forced to ride home (another hour plus!) with the sickening smell pervading every inch of the car’s interior.  My mother, however, was in heaven.

I really wanted to like them.  Truly, I did.  But I just couldn’t get past the smell. 

And in some respects, the texture.  The fuzzy skin.  Ew.  Just the thought of picking them up makes my skin crawl.

My husband must know how very much I love him, when, during peach season, I make a monumental sacrifice by adding them to our grocery list.  As a kid, I watched my mom in the store, picking up the peaches, gently squeezing them, smelling them.  And so, I do the same.  Though admittedly, I’m not really sure what I’m looking for in a good peach. 

Does it smell like stinky feet?  Okay – it must be a good one! 

My lack of love for peaches has become somewhat of a family joke.  My dad thinks he’s real cute, when his peach trees are full and ready to be picked.  I know it’s time because every year, without fail, he calls me to tell me the peach trees are full and they’re ready for ME to come pick them.  My gag reflex tells him he’s done his job.  He’s a real comedian, that one.  And he laughs and laughs and laughs some more.

There was a time, when going to the car wash, I would request “pina colada” as my scent of choice. After a few days, that old, familiar smell stench, reminiscent of my childhood kitchen table, practically suffocated me as I drove.

What.  On.  Earth. 

Convinced that they mistakenly heard me say “peach”, I tried the next time to enunciate better, even leaning my head out the window to clearly say “PI-NA CO-LA-DA”.  Yet the results were the same.  Having learned my lesson, I now simply request “new car” scent.

When my oldest granddaughter was old enough to eat solid food, her parents introduced one new food at a time (infant allergy testing, you know).  Imagine how proud I was when I received a text saying I wasn’t the only one in the family that didn’t like peaches!  My pumpkin-girl and I are kindred spirits!  At the ripe old age of six months, the girl knew what was up!  And peaches.  Definitely.  Weren’t.  It!  My girl!

My loathing of peaches even extends to the color “peach”.  Tangerine and pumpkin, okay.  But the pale pinkish-orangish color of peach.  Nah.  I’m more of a teal type of girl.  Or aqua.  Like the ocean. (Under the Sea)

You may be wondering if I’ve even ever tried peaches?  Why yes, I have!

I’ve tried peach cobbler, a staple in Texas at every barbeque restaurant, buffet and potluck dinner!  Alas, I work my way around the peaches, trying to separate the “cobbler” from the fruit as much as possible.  Do you know how difficult that is?

I’ve even attempted to bite into a fresh peach.  Once.  I timidly picked up the colorful fruit.  Brought it close to my mouth.  Breathed in.  Opened my mouth.  And quickly put it down.

Once in a fancy Italian restaurant, I ordered a Bellini.  Before I knew what Bellinis were.  One sip.  Might as well have put the $6 I paid for the thing into a shredder.

At bunco recently, the host offered up mango margaritas, with a splash of peach something-or-another.  Water for me, thanks!

Peaches and homemade vanilla ice cream?  Yeah, that was a family favorite too.  It’s no wonder that vanilla ice cream (especially when it's homemade!) remains my favorite of all the ice creams in the world.




Having outgrown my dislike of onions and tomatoes, I’d have to say it’s a pretty safe bet that my taste buds, after 54 years, won’t turn the corner on this one. 

Plain and simple.  I. Don’t. Like. Peaches.

So yeah.  I’m weird like that.  I’m the one person you’ll only ever meet who doesn’t like them. 

More for you, you say?  Good on ya!  More for you!