Each year around Thanksgiving, I always get a chuckle about the first turkey I ever made on my own.  It was an eye-opening experience at the crack of dawn and I have never lived it down whatsoever.  Since then, I have made several turkeys and now it is old hat… and I even remember to take out the giblets.  

The first time I cooked a turkey on my own, I got up at the crack of dawn and began the bird and all the sides.  By myself.  I followed the directions in my Betty Crocker Cookbook… washing the turkey, seasoning it.

No one told me about the neck and giblets.

No one.

At 4 am, because we had an 80 pound turkey (okay, maybe it was 15 pounds), I yank this neck out of the turkey… and had NO CLUE what it was.

No clue.

I knew what it LOOKED like though.

Betty failed to describe the neck.

I called my dad– who was still in bed– and the conversation went something like this:

Dad:  Hellowanonongre.

Me:  Dad!  What the hell is in my turkey?

Dad:  Huh?  What are you talking about?

Me:  Dad, it looks like a you-know-what.

Dad:  *Laughter*  and *More Laughter*

Me:  Dad, seriously?  What is it?  Should it be there?

Dad:  Yes.  I’m going back to bed.

I was literally standing in my kitchen holding this appendage.  I actually didn’t find out what it was until my dad got there.  I had saved it to show him.

And, for the record… probably every year since I have forgotten to take out the giblets.  Every year.

Seriously, they can stick them in the same hole with the neck thingy?

The joke for every Thanksgiving after that was if I found the neck or not.  And who was going to get the giblet bag.

My family has a very sick sense of humor.

 

 

 

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