The small ones are for fryin'

I don't know if I will truly be waxing poetic today, waning poetically will probably be more like it, but I have peace in my house for the moment. My 26 pound turkey is a lovely mahogany color, and is filling the house with the smell of my favorite holiday. I'm too lazy to do all the trimmings (well, maybe stuffing and potatoes), but The Rev. and I will be eating much turkey in the next few days. I even dug deep and bought a few avocadoes for sandwiches. We usually get them free from church members, but beggars can't be choosers. The dog is snoring on the couch and the demon kitten has removed her claws from kneading my lap and is curled up on a chair behind me. I would contemplate a Bloody Mary, but it is a tad early, and I think our bottle of mix in the fridge is probably harboring a collective of botulism. I'll take that as a sign.

I am sure you are probably wondering why two people need a 26 pound turkey. Ladies, this is what you get when you send your husband to the grocery store by himself. A lesson learned from my laziness. When I went to the freezer to pull it out, I had two choices. Sixteen pounds and 26 pounds. The small one has already been designated to meet its fate in a vat of bubbling peanut oil. So, 26 pounds of fowl love will be presented to The Rev. when he comes home for lunch.

Maybe if I really get my act together and cook some beans and potatoes, he won't notice that the laundry still isn't done. If only I had a can of pumpkin...