So, the Idiot Gardener jinxed me.
His last post was a step-by-step instructional on how to be an idiot and stab yourself with pruning shears. And there seems to have been some sort of subliminal voodoo-hex towards me embedded in it as well.
I commented about the multitude of ways in which I've been injured (I'm very accident prone), but never through gardening.
Well, I thought I had better stay away from all things sharp in my yard, garage, etc. I knew that after I said I hadn't injured myself gardening, I'd immediately have some sort of trowel accident or something.
There isn't room enough in this world for two Idiot Gardeners!
Thank the Sweet Baby Jesus In The Manger, I remain a gardening genius.
Last night however, I proved that I'm still an Idiot Chef.
I mentioned yesterday that it was Canadian Thanksgiving, and that I was making a huge mammoth feast of magnificently colossal epic proportions. All by myself.
Never. The Fuck. Again.
I wrestled with that damn turkey for at least a couple of hours. It looked like I'd slaughtered the bastard in my kitchen. There was blood everywhere.
It took me forever just to get the fucking neck out. It was as big as some entire turkeys I've seen.
I sweated and yanked and pulled on that thing until it popped and ended up spraying me in the face (yeah, I know...that's what she said). I was so pissed off. I love it when I get raw turkey juice in my mouth.
And this ghetto-ass jive turkey was missing half of its giblets. Still had a big ol' tail hanging off it. Why didn't they just leave the feathers on? Why didn't they just leave the head on it?? Just wrap up a live turkey and stick it in the freezer???
Gobble, gobble, SQUAWK.
It was a long day.
Ten hours of cooking later, I'm finally slicing some potatoes, one of the last things I have to do before everything's ready to eat...I see the light at the end of the cooking tunnel....
I sliced the shit out of my thumb. Luckily we had some gauze pads and surgical tape, because a Band-Aid wasn't gonna cut it (so punny).
I soldiered on with my FrankenThumb, and all that was left to do was carve the turkey.
I asked Chuck if he could at least do that (he was kind of making light of my cut thumb), and he sharpened up a knife.
Chuck stabbed the shit (notice the italics, his was even worse than mine was) out of the top of his hand (karma's a bitch). His appetite wasn't affected, and we're lucky everyone at the table was good with the sight of blood.
The food turned out to be delicious, and everyone enjoyed themselves (even with injuries).
Chuck's daughter Lindsay and her fiancé Mike were over for the meal, and took advantage of the opportunity to go over a few things with us in regard to their wedding on this coming Saturday.
Lindsay asked Chuck to help her pick out a song for the father-daughter dance. She wanted to pick a Led Zeppelin song, because she knows how much Led Zeppelin means to Chuck.
They were going over a few songs, and tried dancing to a couple of them in the kitchen while I was cooking. (Chuck doesn't like to dance in public, so he's been kind of dreading this)
We put on "What Is And What Should Never Be" to try it out, and I laughed so hard, I almost peed myself (ignore my shrill cackling):
I get to also have a part in the wedding.
Mike walked in the door last night with his guitar and some music and said, "So, I have my guitar. I have music. You're going to sing 'Hotel Yorba' at our wedding while I play. And we're going to practice tonight."
In case you don't know what that song is, it's a White Stripes tune that I love.
I don't think he thought I'd agree so quickly. The first time I sang to Mike playing last night, I could see on Chuck's face that he was surprised I sang so well. He's heard me sing, but not as if I was singing for an audience.
Anyway, I didn't get any video of that last night, maybe I'll get some when I sing at the wedding.
Everyone cross your fingers (and thumbs) that I don't suck at singing like I do at slicing potatoes!