The Funasaurus' family does not cook. The Funasaurus has not considered the kitchen as being much more than a storage room for the microwave, until very recently. In fact, The Funasaurus' other nickname in college was Frozen Pizza Twin. (He and his best friend were The Frozen Pizza Twins because on the weekly run to the grocery store, they would just buy piles of frozen pizza. And whole milk. They both drank a ridiculous amount of whole milk. *gag*)
This year, as I am spending Thanksgiving with The Funasaurus Family, I have encouraged the idea of cooking our meal, because I grew up in a house with homemade dinners every night, and the thought of ordering out for the holidays made me cringe. However, I am hardly a gourmet chef. I can make some mean French toast, but I'm not the type to spend time dinking around on epicurious.com, really. So it's the blind leading the blind into the season of overeating and stressful cooking. Should be great.
Last night The Funasaurus helped me look through some cookbooks I inherited (Betty Crocker! Women with flip hairdos standing in polka dot aprons and heels holding pies! So! Not! Me!) we made a list, and I went food shopping. The Funasaurus' mom was talking about maybe going out to brunch, first, Thanksgiving morning. Yet, we are aiming to eat around 3:00 so that The Funasaurus' grandmother can get home at a reasonable time. Now, I don't know much about cooking, but methinks that if we don't get ye ol' turkey in the oven until noon, we's not going to be eating at 3:00. So I nixed the breakfast idea and felt bad, and offered to bring champagne for mimosas while we cooked, as restitution.
While at the grocery store I managed to a) freak out about the germ factor on the grocery cart handle and careen my cart right into the apples because I was being so squeamish about touching the handle b) walk right past the ginormous turkey display without seeing it c) do laps looking for the damn cranberry sauce (which no one will eat, anyway, but I couldn't not get some because hello! It's tradition!) which turned out to be in the canned goods aisle, (who knew?!) and d) sign the wrong name on my checkout receipt, causing the poor cashier to look very doubtful about my credit card not showing up as stolen. (Who's been practicing her new married name maybe just a wee bit much?)
But I made it home with one turkey, one dented can of cranberry "sauce" (in my world, sauce cannot be SLICED into neat, circular little patties, looking very much like very raw McDonalds burgers, hence the quotation marks), and one large bottle of Gatorade for The Funasaurus who has come down with some unidentifiable illness, causing him to feel very nauseous and headache-y. I'm really hoping he's not pregnant. That would change a whole lot of things. Not the first of which being the state in which we'd have to get married.
Of course, I'm ALL ABOUT Thanksgiving in Hawaii!
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4 comments:
ROFLOL at "I hope he's not pregnant!" It's a GI bug in the air....after my Punkinhead had it, so did Charlie Brown and Charlie Brown Sr. (on the other side of the mountains)....
Might change the wedding night too!
I always eat that cranberry "sauce" even though it plops out of the can and remains can-shaped.
have a great T-Day.
Jiffy cornbread mix. can't go wrong, and won't make you hack like bill the cat. moist goodness.
(if anyone asks, I didn't tell you this. as I am from GA, If word gets out I will be immediately be escorted out of the state)
don't fear the turkey, remember you are the master in this relationship. dominate it. Use liberal amounts of wine. In the cook(s).
Happy Thanksgiving.
I love the idea that even if you nixed breakfast you are going to cook with everyone. That, to me, is Thanksgiving. Not the rush to get everything looking Pottery Barn perfect. I like the barn idea with everyone mooo-ving around together. Can't wait to hear the tales.
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