We didn't have turkey on Christmas Day. We had ours on Saturday last, when Mr. Squidge's side of the family came on their festive visit.
Unfortunately, we had a few problems with the bird.
To begin with, we had to leave it chilling in the garage 'til the last minute; our cat, in the past, has scratched the plastic wrapping off and left claw/teeth marks in the meat. Although the bird wasn't exactly at room temp before it went into the oven, cooking officially started at 9am.
By 12.30, I knew we had a problem; the bird was not cooking.
As a result, the three-and-a-half hour planned cooking time (as determined by St. Delia - and she stuffs her bird, we don't) dragged on into four hours and the juices were still running pink. Dinner - to have been served at 1pm - was looking like it needed a lot longer...
We finally sat down to eat at 2pm, and I'm pleased to say the turkey was perfect. My stress levels, however, had gone through the roof.
Having waved all our guests off last night and straightened the house this morning, I stripped the carcass (there's something rather satisfying about that job - perhaps it's my caveman roots) ready for turkey curry tonight and probably turkey stew tomorrow and turkey salad after that... Mr Squidge did buy a big bird.
By the time the last mouthful of turkey has been consumed, we'll be into a new year. I won't be making any resolutions - other than to avoid turkey for a while. But I will take the turkey lesson on board; that the things we want to achieve often take a lot longer than we think.
And they still turn out right.
So, there's hope for my stories yet...