Well, this might have been my favorite Thanksgiving yet. Between the cooking, friends, and crazy good food, it really was the best day. And it was made all the better by being our first Thanksgiving together, in our little apartment in this city we love. This year we'll be spending the holiday season here in DC--we thought it would be nice to start our own traditions together, right off the bat. We miss our families, but we're so happy to be our own little family now too.
^Thankful to be married to a man who will rock a red gingham apron.
Okay, so the Milan vs. the 16 pound turkey battle was an epic one indeed. I really had no business making a turkey in the first place. I mean, as IF I knew what basting was. Nothing a touch of hubris couldn't fix though--I was going to make that turkey if it killed me. Overall, I'd say I won the war, meaning it was edible and, dare I say, even good. But Turkey won a battle or two along the way.
For starters, he had the elements (our plumbing) on his side. The evening before Thanksgiving, the pipe under our kitchen sink burst--I went from absentmindedly washing the dishes to standing in a flooded kitchen all within a few seconds. It was too late to call a plumber that night, which meant that when I woke up bright and early to prepare the turkey the next morning, I still had no running water in my kitchen. Thus we find our protagonist bathing her foe in the bathtub at 8 a.m. on Thanksgiving morning. You try giving a 16 pound turkey a bath without letting it touch the bottom of your tub, using arms that haven't lifted a weight in, well, ever? A very confused Jordan awoke to my pitiful cries for help from the next room over. I don't know, maybe it doesn't sound that bad, but it really was just the worst.
Turkey: 1, Milan: 0
Finally got it washed, brought it back to the kitchen, started to rub butter, paprika, and orange juice (amazing recipe) inside and out, and ouch! Turned out Turkey carried a concealed weapon, something sharp and pointy and horrible within its cavity. En garde! My hand never saw it coming, but had to suffer through its jabs multiple times until the thing was properly rubbed. Scratches galore.
Turkey: 2, Milan: 0
After that, there was really nothing more the turkey could do to me--I managed to get it in the oven and left it to its 325 degree fate for the next several hours. When we finally pulled it out (after a handful of misfires--who really knows when a turkey is done anyway? thermometer schermometer), we tested it and it really wasn't half bad. No complaints from the guests, anyway, but they could have been being polite--I was more satisfied when no one got food poisoning, or anything of the sort. Voila! My first turkey, done and done.
Turkey: 2, Milan: a zillion
But no! Turkey wasn't done having his way with me, and mustered up a glorious, last hurrah after our meal. As I cut off the remaining bits of meat to save for leftovers, in perhaps its most devastating blow yet, Turkey (with the help of his secret ally Serrated Knife) managed to slice off a bit of my finger tip, drawing blood
and tears NO I DID NOT CRY. Touche, my friend. Touche.
Turkey: 2 + a fingertip, Milan: still a zillion
I'll see you next year.
Meanwhile, unaware that a war was raging in their very midst, some of our dearest and newest friends joined us for the meal, bearing delicious side dishes and pies galore. Andrew and Lauren+Cole journeyed down from NYC for the day, and the Smiths and Kents (somehow not pictured, sorry Kents!) traversed Massachusetts Avenue. Thankful for many things, but especially thankful to have been surrounded by such wonderful people in our home that day.
^ Andrew, who came bearing pies and kitchen assistance.
^My little lady Elle, her mom Jenn, and Lauren
^ The mess I did not have to clean up, thank you sliced finger tip!