Wednesday, November 25, 2009

A post for my mom - The Turkey's Coming.

This isn't the turkey. Obviously. This is just to prove that we have fall in NorCal. See.

This year we're doing the Thanksgiving turkey.

Not because we're all super nice and give-y like that, but because we (I) have a very guilty conscious and also we (Bubba) are handy with a smoker.

See, earlier this year, while me mum was so graciously hosting our normally well-behaved-to-the-extreme pooch at her house while we pranced drunkenly around the island of Maui, she took a pretty harsh tumble.

Like, she harshly tumbled while holding tight to the leash as the dog made a mad lathering dash after a STUPIDSTUPID cat.

This resulted in me showing up at the house to retrieve the dog only to find my mom cradling her arm with an ice pack and trying to reassure me that she was just fine as blood dripped from her chin.


Let me tell you, people, this is not how you want to find your sweet dog-loving mama after a week of pooch sitting especially when, just an hour ago on the phone, she said she was going to "go enjoy one last walk with the dogs" before I showed up.


The woman, she is an animal-lover, and this goes double for the dogs. Yet, for some reason, our dogs (my brother's dog, our childhood dogs, etc) sometimes torture my mom by taking her for a ride while they're out on walks. And would you like to know why?

Because of CATS.

Muther Effing Cats.

Now, you know that I have a cat. Her name is Rocket and she is a cute but bloodthirsty beast who poses no threat to my mom because Jada is so afraid of her that she won't go chasing after her on-leash or off. However, when something like this happens - where my mom gets dragged raw and bloody in the name of a cat - I come home and give Rocket the stink-eye because Her Kind is, in my opinion, at fault for the horrible consequences that befell my beloved mama.

Regardless of the fact that it was the dog who chased the cat and was attached to the other end of the Death Leash that dragged mama to the ground.

Know this, friends, I favor the dog. I always will. Because I'm not a fair and just pet-owner and also because Rocket, while cute and fuzzy as all get out, tries to murder me on a regular basis and so I feel like the feeling is mutual.


I told you that to tell you this: we're bringing the turkey this year because my mom sustained a pretty heinous crack to the shoulder (as in, it was fractured- BARF) that prevents her from lifting heavy objects. Heavy objects like 20 lb turkeys that need to go in ovens.

And also because she likes smoked meats (which, doesn't everyone?) and when I offered to bring smoked turkey to Thanksgiving she didn't even do the, "Oh honey, if you think it wouldn't be too much trouble..." thing. No. She just said, "Hell muther effin' yeah!" or something a bit more subdued and ladylike because my mom isn't an awful heathen like yours truly.

So, we got some turkeys. Specifically, three bone-in breasts (with necks and wings? So weird.) and, like, half a dozen giant legs.

Big boobs.

Pterodactyl legs.

Basically, what we have are the parts for three fully-assembled turkeys, but I had it in my head that we were only going to smoke the breast meat (because dark meat is evil and I don't recall anyone ever eating it) so I only bought the breasts. To avoid all the butchery involved in carving up three birds.

Except we went back and got drumsticks because there are, apparently, some people who DO like dark meat even though I will continue to classify it in the EW section of my food memory banks. I have problems, this is true.


Us with our three deconstructed turkeys went out to the smoker last Saturday and Bubba did all the work. Like, I left the scene of the crime to go eat burgers with a friend while Bubba manned the smoker and did all the smoker magic that people will be raving about tomorrow.

Don't think for one second, though, that I'm not going to take some of the credit for the deliciousness that will ensue. I mean, I did salt the birds and lift them out of the smoker with Bubba's super handy turkey gloves and that is a lot of poultry wrestling if you ask me. Not to mention that later on today I will be slicing these birds into succulent platter fulls for the enjoyment of my family.

Jailbirds. HA! My own jokes...they are laughable.

See? I'm good at this credit-stealing! Not that this is an admirable quality, but I work with what I have.

While we're on the subject though, I should give all the credit to Bubba because that man really knows his way around a smoker.

Especially a monster smoker that he hand welded from Craigslist finds, industrial off-road worthy casters and miles of ingenuity.

We call this treat, Frankensmoker.

Also, he had to saw up tree limbs (another friendly donation) so that the smoke would be *just right* and then spend the day On Watch making sure that the smoke stayed hot enough (BUT NOT TOO HOT DAMN YOU!) and the beer stayed cold.

Beer not pictured.

He's a dedicated soul, my Bubba.

Anyway, since this post is for my mom: Hi mom! Don't worry about the turkey - he's on his way! We'll see you after the race in the morning and we're bringing Jada who promises to be on her very best behavior. In other words, please tell all the cats to stay away know...

Everyone else - Happy Turkey, you whores. Come back later and we'll talk about the bestselling sewing and needlecrafts book on Amazon.

Oh yeah, you know what it is.


  1. Holy Cow -- that's a serious smoker! I'm sorry to say, I don't think I've ever had a smoked turkey - it sounds delicious though. Sorry to hear about your mom -- hope her shoulder gets better in a hurry. Happy Thanksgiving to you and your family!

  2. When my parents aren't being lame they deep fry a turkey. Which *apparently* takes 3 guys to stand and watch for like 30 minutes or so.

    On an aside, when we had a dog (his name was Willie) we dreaded doing the walks because Willie LOVED chipmunks. Loved them to bits. Sometimes literally. So the last memorable walk we had with him (we had to put him down) my brother and I were holding Willie with two leashes on an icy alley, when Willie spotted the chipmunk. Knowing I couldn't run and wasn't about to mess up my hair, I let go of my leash and Travis fell to the ground instantly and was dragged about a half a mile. And I laughed. Super hard. And went back in to watch The Real World and eat chips while he wrestled the dog. :)

  3. Your poor Momma! I hope she heals quickly! But what a consolation prize! She gets smoked turkey!
    I hope you have a wonderful Thanksgiving!

  4. Holy shit that's a big smoker! WOW. I've got one of those Tylenol-looking capsule kinds. VERY impressive. I bow to Bubba.

    Happy Thanksgiving!

  5. To Finny's mom: The medical community has carefully covered up the fact that pie heals fractures. But it totally does. So eat some extra pie in the name of health.

    To Finny, Bubba, and Jada: Happy Thanksgiving. I hope it's so good you unbutton your pants. (Except Jada, who should not be wearing pants, because that would be weird.)

  6. Shame, shame, shame, mother effin cat hater.

  7. Do you really call it the Frankensmoker? Out loud? Like "Hey Bubba, go out and set up the Frankensmoker cuz I feel like some sooty delicious pieces of cow carcass for dinner"?

    (And wow, he made it? From Craigslist junk? Bubba must be like some underground Hephaestus or something.)

    And lastly, owie. Poor Finny's Mom. But Kristin is right, pie all wounds heals. Gobble gobble.

  8. (Okay, not last.)

    P.S. Anonymous, you chicken. Own up to your comments.


[2013 update: You can't comment as an anonymous person anymore. Too many douchebags were leaving bullshit SPAM comments and my inbox was getting flooded, but if you're here to comment in a real way like a real person, go to it.]

Look at you commenting, that's fun.

So, here's the thing with commenting, unless you have an email address associated with your own profile, your comment will still post, but I won't have an email address with which to reply to you personally.

Sucks, right?

Anyway, to remedy this, I usually come back to my posts and post replies in the comment field with you.

But, if you ever want to email me directly to talk about pumpkins or shoes or what it's like to spend a good part of your day Swiffering - shoot me an email to finnyknitsATgmailDOTcom.