I'm not a good cook. I don't know that I'll ever be talented in the kitchen, but I do try. Last night was my first attempt at cooking a turkey. I made it in one of those Reynold's oven bags, but about halfway through, I noticed the turkey was turning black everywhere the bag was touching it. I took the turkey out and cut the bag away and realized that the bag was actually melting to the turkey. I'm still not sure how I managed that one. So I covered the blackest parts with foil and kept on cooking it. The directions said to let it cook for 2 to 2 1/2 hours, but over 3 hours later, that stupid red button still hadn't popped up yet. It was probably close to 3 1/2 hours before it popped up and by then I wasn't even very hungry anymore. Plus we don't know how to carve a turkey, although TJ did a good job on his first attempt. Surprisingly, after peeling off the burnt skin, the turkey itself was actually quite good. A little dry, maybe, but edible which was more than I was expecting.
It reminds me of another turkey disaster that lives in infamy in my family. It was several Thanksgivings ago and my grandma glazed the turkey about halfway through its cooking time. Over the next hour or so, we all started noticing that the kitchen started smelling really funny and we finally tracked the source of the smell back to the oven. It smelled lemon-y and medicinal, almost. That's when my mom saw a bottle sitting out on the counter and asked my grandma if she had used it on the turkey and she said yes. It was Lysol. We had a Lysol-basted turkey. My granddad even tried a piece to see if it could be salvaged! It couldn't, and we didn't all want to end up in the ER, so we ate hot dogs or something sad like that instead.
Maybe turkey disasters run in my genes. Thanks, Nana. :)