Thanksgiving disaster Number One has already reared her ugly head. While attempting to remove something from the fridge, my father...
...DROPPED THE TURKEY.
Said turkey was sitting in her Zip-locked brine bath, but she bathes no more. There was screaming, swearing. I thought he'd cut himself. Badly.
The mess is cleaned up, the turkey's back in the fridge and my poor father is at Safeway at 10pm on the night before Thanksgiving buying turkey brine.
My mother pointed out that Safeway is probably packed with people all holding one item. "And they're all pissed off."
We made a list of the "thing" kin is often dispatched to purchase, the lone forgotten ingredient missing from an otherwise overflowing kitchen.
Ah, the holidays. I have never celebrated a Thanksgiving, Christmas, or for that matter Easter, that did not involve my brother and I being sent to buy vanilla extract and Saran Wrap at inconvenient times.
In good news, my recent obsession with vintage Burberry trench coats based upon THIS genius ad campaign and digging through the hall closet has paid off in the offering of not one, but two vintage Burberry options. Lo many years ago, my parents were cogs in the FiDi, both of them trudging through the high-paced corporate trenches in designer, foul-weather trenches. My father's is old and ratty, the pockets have holes in them and I think it's still wet from the great storm of '84. My mother's is much newer, fits perfectly and is immaculate. I found a ticket stub from 4 years ago in the pocket, thus proving she's moved on.
I've rolled the sleeves, I've adjusted the collar. The Art of the Trench will be making it's way to my ghetto neighborhood this winter. That is, provided we don't have anymore turkeys making a break for it.
My God, the screaming...it's already started. I really think we should save that kind of dramatic family dynamic for the guests tomorrow...