Oh, thank all the gods it's gone. I thought it would never go away. It was like a fungus -- no matter where I looked, there it was. It was in the refrigerator, laughing at me every time I opened the door, squeaking out from its plastic container. Its carcass was in the trash can outside, the cover held down securely by specialized handles that even a raccoon couldn't budge (though it did put large claw holes on the top where it held on for dear life trying to get inside at the plastic bags full of goodies).
Finally, early tonight, it ends. It is a brief battle tonight, nothing like last Thursday's strugglefest. Tonight all it takes is a sharp knife, slicing a triangular pattern along the top, scooping out an oozing hunk of flesh-toned crust, and zapping the entire mess for about two minutes. I don't even bother with the beer; I go directly to the ice cold milk. By five o'clock, any remnants, any reminder, any shred of evidence has disappeared.DING.
No, not "Fries are done..." Microwave is done. I open it to reveal steam and heat and an aroma I waited so long to sniff again , which I finally did about a week ago. Now it's the same odor that's giving me agida. But I will suffer for my art ... I mean, I will suffer for this once-twelve-pounder.
After stuffing my face with most of the remaining turkey pot pie, I finally send the last piece and a half (with the crust edge picked off) into the garbage.
ALAS,the Thanksiving turkey is finally gone. RIP, good buddy, We'll see your cousin next Thanksgiving. Here's the invite. Now go pack on about thirteen pounds.
