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I wasn't happy to begin with but fixing a full turkey dinner just made my day that much worse. I really didn't need this kind of aggravation but I relented and filled each over burner with a side dish in anticipation of the turkey's completion of it's roast.
I opened the oven and a hot blast of air flew in my face, causing my eyes to water so I stepped back a bit. Using the pot holders, I slid the rack towards me giving me easier access to the cooking bird. It was browning nicely but the flesh seemed as though it was drying out. I reached to my left and opened the drawer for the Turkey Baster. Rummaging around while fiddling with the bird wiht my otherhand, proved useless so I diverted my full attention to the messy drawer full of cooking utensils. I peered in the drawer near the back and spotted the beautiful little tool of suction. Beating back the BBQ fork, pushing aside the shish keebob skewers, and finally sliding out the baster proved difficult due to the clutter. Finally, I unleashed the instrument of moisture transport and blew the dust off.
Holding up the turkey baster to the light, I truly appreciated it's true beauty. How long had I held it's might in my hands--six, seven months? Maybe longer, but regardless, it was far too long. Using my index and my middle finger, supported on the other side by the thumb, I put pressure on the ball of the baster distorting it's shape from the cheery roundish ribbed form to a more innertube-like form.
"Phoof-Phoof-Phoof," went the escaping and the suctioning of the air as I continued to fondle the turkey baster. It's level of resistance was perfect. The pressure required to squeeze the ball was firm enough to accurately propel the appropriate amount of broth back on the turkey's darkening breast while the return of the shape wasn't so harried as to allow a most uncomfortable recoil. It was truly a well formed tool of culinary perfection. Why, even the rubbery ribs allowed for proper traction for my finger tips, as not to allow excessive slippage--just as long as I didn't fumble the baster and allow juices to soil the rubber. I would have to be o so careful. Oh yes, so very careful.
The hard plastic shaft of the baster was no less impressive. Constructed of a semi-transparent plastic with the tip becoming narrower to a point near the bottom, this part of the baster was not meant for fooling around. The measurement markings along the side meant business. This baster screamed, "cook with me, James...Make beatiful food with me now." I was left with no other choice but to obey.
I weilded the plastic instrument for it's first voyage into the depths of liquid runoff of the now glorious bird. This turkey baster would aid in making this otherwise dry bird into a moist, juicy, scrumptious masterpiece worthy of my family's consumption. This baster was the key to a most glorious dinner, indeed.
With a trembling hand I slowly lowered the tip of the shaft into the bubbling brownish liquid. Patient, I pressed my fingers together, releasing the trapped air as it came bubbling off to the top. A moment of levity filled my soul as the bubbles caused a gleeful smile upon my face--the first that day. Satisfied, I began to release pressure, allowing the liquid to fill the shaft of the baster. A warm, pleasant feeling slowly came to my finger tips as the broth rose and it's head transferred to the plastic and rubber. Finally, the baster was filled to capacity and I lifted the weapon above the soon-to-be meal. Once again, I applied pressure and observed as the glistening liquid ran over the breasts surface and down teh cavity where once the neck was attached. Now, it was the home to my special stuffing. The turkey juice lazily ran down the entire turkey's surface making an angry hiss and steam rose up, filling the room, yet again with the smell of magic in the making. I repeated several times, thorougly drenching the flesh and began removing the turkey baster from the vicinity of the oven. Carelessly, however, I fumbled it against the side of the pan and the instrument slipped out of my hand. Desperately, I tried to grab it as it fell but I was unsuccessful. The baster hit the side of the pan, rebounded and landed horizontally into the broth.
Mortified, I reached in, scolding my hand. That wasn't the correct course of action. Panicked, I frantically looked around for something to retrieve my most cherished of cooking wonders. Tongs for the salad were on the table and i made a desperate grab for them. They hit home and I quickly snapped up the turky baster and allowed the juices to drip off, tears welling up in my eyes.
It was too late, the baster was overcome by the intense heat and was distorted. It's graceful lines, mutated by the very juices it was meant to transport. I grasped the nearby towel and wiped of the mess off of it. Alas, it was beyond repair or hope...I had lost my turkey baster. After a long time of reflecting, I leaned back and aimed for a sweet three pointer across the kitchen and landed it right into the trashbin.
After serving the turkey, I walked over to the refridgerator and scribbled on the "to do list" a reminder to pick up another baster from teh supermarket. Lost, but not forgotten, it's tradition will continue.
Good night all.
I opened the oven and a hot blast of air flew in my face, causing my eyes to water so I stepped back a bit. Using the pot holders, I slid the rack towards me giving me easier access to the cooking bird. It was browning nicely but the flesh seemed as though it was drying out. I reached to my left and opened the drawer for the Turkey Baster. Rummaging around while fiddling with the bird wiht my otherhand, proved useless so I diverted my full attention to the messy drawer full of cooking utensils. I peered in the drawer near the back and spotted the beautiful little tool of suction. Beating back the BBQ fork, pushing aside the shish keebob skewers, and finally sliding out the baster proved difficult due to the clutter. Finally, I unleashed the instrument of moisture transport and blew the dust off.
Holding up the turkey baster to the light, I truly appreciated it's true beauty. How long had I held it's might in my hands--six, seven months? Maybe longer, but regardless, it was far too long. Using my index and my middle finger, supported on the other side by the thumb, I put pressure on the ball of the baster distorting it's shape from the cheery roundish ribbed form to a more innertube-like form.
"Phoof-Phoof-Phoof," went the escaping and the suctioning of the air as I continued to fondle the turkey baster. It's level of resistance was perfect. The pressure required to squeeze the ball was firm enough to accurately propel the appropriate amount of broth back on the turkey's darkening breast while the return of the shape wasn't so harried as to allow a most uncomfortable recoil. It was truly a well formed tool of culinary perfection. Why, even the rubbery ribs allowed for proper traction for my finger tips, as not to allow excessive slippage--just as long as I didn't fumble the baster and allow juices to soil the rubber. I would have to be o so careful. Oh yes, so very careful.
The hard plastic shaft of the baster was no less impressive. Constructed of a semi-transparent plastic with the tip becoming narrower to a point near the bottom, this part of the baster was not meant for fooling around. The measurement markings along the side meant business. This baster screamed, "cook with me, James...Make beatiful food with me now." I was left with no other choice but to obey.
I weilded the plastic instrument for it's first voyage into the depths of liquid runoff of the now glorious bird. This turkey baster would aid in making this otherwise dry bird into a moist, juicy, scrumptious masterpiece worthy of my family's consumption. This baster was the key to a most glorious dinner, indeed.
With a trembling hand I slowly lowered the tip of the shaft into the bubbling brownish liquid. Patient, I pressed my fingers together, releasing the trapped air as it came bubbling off to the top. A moment of levity filled my soul as the bubbles caused a gleeful smile upon my face--the first that day. Satisfied, I began to release pressure, allowing the liquid to fill the shaft of the baster. A warm, pleasant feeling slowly came to my finger tips as the broth rose and it's head transferred to the plastic and rubber. Finally, the baster was filled to capacity and I lifted the weapon above the soon-to-be meal. Once again, I applied pressure and observed as the glistening liquid ran over the breasts surface and down teh cavity where once the neck was attached. Now, it was the home to my special stuffing. The turkey juice lazily ran down the entire turkey's surface making an angry hiss and steam rose up, filling the room, yet again with the smell of magic in the making. I repeated several times, thorougly drenching the flesh and began removing the turkey baster from the vicinity of the oven. Carelessly, however, I fumbled it against the side of the pan and the instrument slipped out of my hand. Desperately, I tried to grab it as it fell but I was unsuccessful. The baster hit the side of the pan, rebounded and landed horizontally into the broth.
Mortified, I reached in, scolding my hand. That wasn't the correct course of action. Panicked, I frantically looked around for something to retrieve my most cherished of cooking wonders. Tongs for the salad were on the table and i made a desperate grab for them. They hit home and I quickly snapped up the turky baster and allowed the juices to drip off, tears welling up in my eyes.
It was too late, the baster was overcome by the intense heat and was distorted. It's graceful lines, mutated by the very juices it was meant to transport. I grasped the nearby towel and wiped of the mess off of it. Alas, it was beyond repair or hope...I had lost my turkey baster. After a long time of reflecting, I leaned back and aimed for a sweet three pointer across the kitchen and landed it right into the trashbin.
After serving the turkey, I walked over to the refridgerator and scribbled on the "to do list" a reminder to pick up another baster from teh supermarket. Lost, but not forgotten, it's tradition will continue.
Good night all.
