Thanksgiving Mishaps, or...

       Thanksgiving, a time for learning and spending time with family and friends, is also infamous for cooking mishaps. In all of my history of Thanksgivings, I have never eaten a thanksgiving dinner at the traditional hour: lunch time. My mother and father usually cook the meal, and something or another goes wrong. One year, they forgot to defrost the turkey the year before, and the next year, our dog Spot ate all of the pie. I’m glad to say, however, that I’ve only had one year which I will never forget.
         The day of Thanksgiving, my parents invited over a slew of friends for a feast. Since they expected so many guests, two turkeys were required. They put one in the microwave and the other in the oven, hoping that the food would be cooked quickly. Crock pots found outlets left and right so that yams, mashed potatoes, and other delicacies could accompany the delightful birds.
          Bottles of wine and beer appeared after hours of waiting, and everyone began to drink except for me and the other children who spent our time locked away upstairs playing with our toys.
           After another hour past, my mother opened the oven to check on one turkey, and found that it was still half frozen and the oven wasn’t even on. After discovering this, she checked the one in the microwave and discovered that it was not being cooked either. A fuse had blown from too many appliances plugging in at once. She and daddy replaced the fuse, and the meals resumed cooking right where they left off.
              More beer and wine spread through the gathering, including my mother and father while they cooked.
            Nearly another hour past, and my father started getting frustrated, which never ends well. He reached into the oven and removed the cook bag from the turkey. My mother behind him, sipping a glass of grape wine, advised against it, so dad shooed her from the kitchen telling her that he didn’t need her help if she was just going to criticize his work.
              A little put off, my mother began to mingle among the hungry guests nibbling on appetizers and sipping their alcohol.
               A short time later, she noticed black smoke rolling out of the kitchen. Dad exited to check the status of foods cooking outside on the grill, and mom slipped into the kitchen to investigate. To her surprise, he had the oven turned up to five hundred degrees. She opened the door, releasing more black smoke, and peeked in at the smoldering turkey inside. The charred skin pealed off slowly in burnt flakes and the flesh underneath boiled. She closed the door again, and lowered the temperature so that the remains might still be edible.
             Just then, the sound of an explosion erupted from behind her. Startled, she whipped around. The turkey inside of the microwave, not set on high, had split open to the bone. She retrieved it, and as she pulled it out, a crackling sound resembling the “turning to stone” sound effect in movies emanated from it.
            Gingerly, she used a knife and tapped its flesh. The knife rung, as though tapped against stone. The bird would not cut. Quite literally, it was petrified.
          With both turkeys ruined and evening fast approaching, my mother broke out the rest of the food. Potatoes, gravy, stuffing, all of it was served without the traditional highlight item. After the meal, my mother managed to salvage some of the Cajun turkey from the oven, and sent it home with our buzzed guests.
           I personally shall never forget that day, not only because I was very hungry while waiting for dinner, but also because I learned a very valuable lesson. My father’s cooking errors would not have been so severe had he been sober. Now I know: Never drink when preparing food.