See? This is why I don’t cook.

When I do cook, it usually turns out really great, but this is because I am so BAD at it. I am that person who meticulously measures out EXACTLY one teaspoon of salt, and gets angry when recipes call for such measurements as “salt to taste”.

So my dinners are either extravagant works of art or complete and utter flops.

Thankfully, after a LOT of hard work, I managed to pull a win out of my hat with this turkey situation. Still— UGH. I hope I never see a turkey again as long as I live.

Any other sane person would have taken one look at the recipe and thought, “Hmmm. Wow. Three tablespoons of cayenne pepper seems like a lot for just one little turkey. Perhaps I should use some common sense and re-read the directions.”

Not me!

I happily slathered on enough “Essence” to cook approximately three full-sized moose onto one little innocent, unsuspecting turkey. After re-reading, I realize that the “Essence” recipe yields about 30 servings worth of flavoring—- all of which I slathered on today’s turkey.

I feel like if I pinched my skin really hard right now, “Essence” would squeeze out of it.

Once I realized my mistake, 10 am this morning found me kneeling in front of a stove, scrubbing a half-cooked turkey with some Bounty paper towels. Thank heavens for paper towels! After scrubbing the bird thoroughly several times, and draining all of the juices no less than 3 times, I did manage to save the turkey.

I also seem to have given myself a slight case of food poisoning. The skin of the turkey, heavily laden with 30 doses of seasoning, turned immediately brown.

Brown turkeys are cooked turkeys, right?

Right.

So as I rebasted, and drained, and rebasted, and scrubbed, and sweated my way to a Thanksgiving victory, I continually nibbled on tiny pieces of that stupid bird, trying to see if I had managed to accomplish my goal.

In my nervousness, I kind of forgot that eating uncooked poultry is not a good thing, no matter how “done” of a color you managed to paint it with 30 doses of “Essence”.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go powder my nose. AGAIN.

Hold onto your hats, folks.

After bragging to my family about my mad turkey-cooking skillz, I commandeered the turkey-cooking for the family Thanksgiving. After all, I couldn’t trust the turkey to anyone else— it might come out dry.

I decided on a delicious recipe, where you create an Emeril-Essence rub, and then baste the turkey periodically with chicken stock and apple cider. You stuff the lucky bird with onions, orange, celery, bay leaf, and a touch of the powder. Before you put the turkey in the oven you rub 1 teaspoon of the powder all over the turkey.

That is, that’s what you would do.

If you were me, you would misread the directions and rup 2/3 of a cup of the powder all over the turkey, coating it in a gelatinous, powdery muck, marvelling that the recipe would call for so much powder.

Two hours into the cooking I realized my mistake. I’ve tried to do damage control, but I think I just ruined Thanksgiving.

I’ll let you know how it goes.