I can barely see the keyboard of my computer over my distended abdomen, swollen with pound after pound of turkey and the requisite fixins. And cheesecake. Lots of cheesecake. I suppose this is a milestone to adulthood, (aka the Long March Toward Death), the first family Thanksgiving dinner hosted at my house.
I deep-fried a turkey, and somehow managed not to burn my house down, or suffer disfiguring injuries from the four gallons of oil bubbling over propane flame, despite the pessimism of the fine folks at Underwriter's Laboratories. Yes, turkey fryers are dangerous. If you're an idiot.
Betsy's folks and mine gathered, along with brother Mark and long-lost brother Andrew, to enjoy the fried poultry and a host of not-from-scratch accompaniments like Stovetop stuffing and Heinz gravy. It was damn fine. And I don't even like turkey.
Now all that's left to do is find some place to dump four gallons of peanut oil flavored with the essence of a ponderous, top heavy, genetically enhanced bird. As soon as I can roll myself off the couch, I'm off to look for a storm drain.
