When that (Butterball) Hotine Bling

Butterball

This weekend I did the most adult thing I’ve ever done besides work full-time and pay rent. I roasted a turkey and hosted Friendsgiving.

I did so much research all last week leading up to Saturday that I was positive this was going to go without hitch.

And then I pulled the turkey out of the refrigerator at noon with the packaging still on. In all of my researching, I never noted that you’re supposed to thaw the turkey unpackaged. First of all – why? Secondly – ew. I opened the turkey package to find a still frozen turkey. Naturally, I called my mom. For the most part I kept my cool. But when she said I might have to buy a thawed turkey or an already cooked turkey I got off the phone and cried. Not the soft, silent tears. Oh no. The tears that stream down your face and say, “I let a week of stress pile up into one catastrophic moment.” Some say I’m dramatic.

Mom directed me to the butterball hotline. Ah yes, the hotline for all desperate people like me trying to do nice things for people. I imagine that the butterball hotline is a call center full of grey haired grandmas with gravelly voices and Southern accents they use to call people pet names.

I wonder how many turkeys you have to cook to answer the butterball hotline. . .

And I wonder how many people call the butterball hotline sobbing. . .

The lady that answered my call sounded more like a nasally Sarah Palin and she didn’t call me, “Honey,” which disappointed me, but she did tell me to run water through the turkey cavity, which I tried.

So there I was with a tear-streaked face, running water through a dead bird in my sink and the inability to shake the thought: “This used to be alive. This used to run around.”

This lasted about twenty minutes. I’m thankful water is included in my rent.

Halfway through the watering of the bird, my Grandad – the man who knows everything about cooking turkeys and makes two turkeys each Thanksgiving – called me and walked me through removing the giblets. I was really hoping Pai would be here for this. But he wasn’t. And even though I called him 18 times, he never answered.

I had to do this by myself.

I woke up Saturday morning a strong, independent woman, and I ended Saturday evening a stronger, more independent woman who stuck her hand up a turkey’s butt to pull out his organs.

Running the water through the bird must have softened it up, because four hours later, a cooked turkey was carved and served. My house was filled with 12 adults, 2 toddlers and an infant, lots of warmth, food, and love.

And then everyone left and Pai and I just laid on the floor, pooped.

Did you host a Friendsgiving this season? How did it go?!

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