Why I Cook and Alan Does the Dishes.

“Why don’t we buy a turkey, and I’ll cook it? Alan said. “We can eat some and freeze the rest.”

“Ok,” I responded knowing that he would never do it alone, and I would be involved. 

Turkey day arrived. He took the huge bird out of the refrigerator and found the roasting pan. I put the box with cooking bags on the counter, added the container with flour, and stepped to the side. This was his idea.

He took the directions from the box and began reading. “First, cut off the drumstick.”

“What?” I asked trying not to laugh.

“It says to cut off the drumstick.” My contorted face gave him a clue that something was wrong. “Maybe I read the wrong place.” 

Giggling, I picked up the booklet. “You looked at carving instead of cooking.” 

I pictured him struggling to sever a stubborn raw turkey leg and couldn’t contain my laughter. He joined in.

He yanked out the innards and laid them aside. I floured the bag, and we wrestled the awkward bird into the bag. Alan sliced slits in the top and tied it shut.

Again, he picked up the cooking bag directions while I watched. With a frown he read silently and then aloud.

“In cold weather, it takes eleven hours.”

I doubled over with tears coming from my eyes. Between laughs, I grabbed the strange directions. 

“It says cold water not cold weather. You read the directions for defrosting,” I sputtered.

“I wondered why the other column said four or five days,” he giggled.

Our relay of laughter kept us going and going while the turkey waited. I leaned against the refrigerator to keep from falling over. 

He continued innocently, “I wondered why cooking would be different in cold weather.”

After order was restored, we advanced to the technical part of the process. 

Like a lost little boy, he asked, “What do we do now?”

I handed him the meat probe and began reading oven directions. After several steps and many buttons, he had it. The turkey was safely in the oven.

The football game resumed, and I returned to my reading. 

A wonderful aroma greeted me when I returned from the patio. A sheepish Alan met me at the door. 

“I turned the light on to see the turkey and hit the wrong button to turn it off. I turned off the oven.”

More laughing as we walked to the kitchen. Of course, he didn’t remember how to turn the oven back on. I repeated the instructions and baking continued. I also pointed out the clearly marked oven light button.

Each time we eat the succulent meat, we will remember the fun we had baking it. I still envision a blackened, shriveled, one legged bird after eleven hours of baking.

A sense of humor can relieve all kinds of difficult situations and warm the heart.