Thanksgiving Pickle

Hello again!

Hope you all had a tremendously wonderful Thanksgiving.  If you haven’t read my last post, “Wait, It’s Thanksgiving Already?!”, stop and read it now before you read this.  I promise this post will make MUCH more sense if you read the previous one first.

Have you read the previous post?  You have?  Okay…moving on.

You know how I gave a brief, and I’m sure incomplete, list of Thanksgiving fails?  Well here was this year’s Thanksgiving experience which I will happily share in order to facilitate laughter (hopefully), which we all know is the greatest medicine for anything.

When we think of Thanksgiving, probably most of us think of the beautifully browned turkey on a platter, bowls of side dishes and homemade desserts.  If you’re like me, you picture a candle-lit glow around the turkey in a dimly-lit room.  I’m not sure why I picture Thanksgiving like that, maybe it is some ancient memory passed down through ancestors who had no electricity.  Right, anyhow.

This Thanksgiving, as you know, because you read the previous post…I didn’t truly remember that it was Thanksgiving until Wednesday.  I decided in the interest of creating a low-stress holiday celebration that I would pick up a couple chickens instead of a turkey.  During my shopping trip, that resolve changed to picking up two day-old rotisserie chickens (they were out of the same-day chickens, so I tell myself I was not the only one with this idea).  I grabbed Pillsbury flaky honey biscuits, canned cranberry sauce, olives, pickles, instant potatoes (horrible, I know), boxed stuffing and frozen pies.

What?  This is not the Thanksgiving you were dreaming of?! Ha.  You’re just misguided, I’m sure.

Dinner preparation was negligible, for which I was exceedingly grateful.  I had little helpers who spooned out the olives and pickles.  We actually got to eat on time! That’s a first!  I heaped pots and bowls on my tiny table (I don’t really have any counter space in the kitchen), which consequently meant we could not eat sitting at the table.  Instead, we ate perched in various locations of the living room with our plates on our laps.  The real miracle here is that no one overturned a plate into someone’s lap.

While we were eating, I first realized that I had forgotten to cook the peas.  I decided not to make them since we already had hardly any space on the table and plenty of food to eat.  The ham turned out very sweet (yummy, but still…), and the potatoes were extremely salty.  I sat across from my mother, watching a wide variety of expressions cross her face, and wondered what the problem was outside of the extremes in sweet and salty.  Surely those extremes were not enough to warrant such a wide variety of expressions?

My answer came within a few moments when she addressed me with a carefully guarded expression.

“Did you get spiced dill pickles?”

I felt my brows wrinkle in confusion.  I had traversed the sparsely stocked aisle of pickles to make sure I picked up the coveted jar of dill spears.  I answered that I just picked up the dill spears, like normal.  At this point I receive a puzzling response.

“My mouth is burning.”

I chalk this up to a bit of dramatics, but wonder if I might have indeed picked up the zesty dill spears.  I grab the jar out of the fridge and read the label.  It is clearly marked “dill spears” with no inclusion of the word zesty.  I turn the jar a fraction to put it back in the fridge and notice a little red mark to the far left of the label, which appears in the same manner one would use a “new and improved!” label.  In this little red label, however, is not “new!” but “Flavored with Tabasco sauce” instead.  Epic fail.

Later that day, I opened the second rotisserie chicken for dinner and thought it tasted a little strange.  I couldn’t discern the difference, but it was not the same as the other chicken.  It wasn’t until I brought out both chickens to get enough meat, and tried to look at the date, that I realized one of the chickens said “lemon pepper”.   I finally had to admit Thanksgiving defeat.  My mother has already mentioned catering for next year.

Perhaps IHOP is in my future next year.

Scrawl Something

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