Ok, so maybe you'll have to remind me that every year I tend to freak out that the turkey is a total failure, but it tends to work out just fine in the end. Not a reason to do the thanksgiving dinner again next year, just a realization that for some reason cooking turkey makes me unusually anxious. Oh, and please remind me that just before the panic sets in, I should pour myself a glass of wine. So here's what happened last night:
After venting here, I poured myself that much needed glass of wine, turned the oven back on, put the turkey back in there, set the table with all the other yummies we (read: T.) made, such as asparagus and brussel sprouts smothered in garlic, tomato salad, two different cranberry sauces, pan-fried stuffing, and the inevitable olive tray of my childhood. Plus some leftovers for my beautiful boys, who refuse to eat anything green (or red). Although to give credit to B, he stuck his finger in the cranberry sauce and tried it, and was really fascinated by the brussel sprouts (i think b/c they are ball shaped) and would smell them but did not want to taste them. And we sat down to a truly lovely meal. At 8pm when the turkey was finally ready, T carved it up, and we all sat down and devoured it. B absolutely loved it, gobbling down a plate of white meat without once trying to escape from the table (which has become his sop at mealtime). We were all so full that we decided to put dessert off until this morning, and have it for breakfast.