Sanstorm’s Advent 17
Behind door seventeen… is a turkey.
Christmas is coming; the goose is getting fat, but hey, it needn’t worry because I’ve got a turkey on the menu. Gobble gobble.
I was worried I’d be too late to order one from the butcher – but I went past the butcher on my way to the Chinese Carry-out last night and it still has the “Time to Order for Christmas” banner up – advertising turkeys, geese and capons. Whatever I capon is I do not know. I assume its is like a jumped up chicken or something worth roasting. So I must get round there and order up my turkey-for-eleven. But not a capon. They never even did capons on Masterchef. Just pigeons and guineafowl.
Turkey. All I can think of is Bernard Matthews. And nuggets.
And the fear of not cooking it properly. So I will. I’ll overcook it, if anthing.
Man, my sentence structure is a bit deconstructed these days. It is annoying even me. Although it’s not as annoying as when people use a series of one-word minor sentences for emphasis. It. Does. My. Head. In.
I do my turkey according to Delia Smith’s Cookery Course book. There’s a lot of butter and bacon involved. Then I roast it until it totally disintegrates and any notional salmonella are roasted beyond recovery. It is a dull meat, right enough, but I’ll be sure to have enough accompaniments to jazz up the plate a bit.
Maybe I could do a Masterchef style deconstructed turkey dinner – and just make a kind of standing stone out of turkey nuggets, and dribble gravy in a whizzy circle around it.
Or. Perhaps. Not.