I fucking love Miss Carol.
Last week while she was out of town we started talking about the blinis I’d seen on one of the foodie shows. Russian blinis are kinda like French crepes or Mexican tortillas. They’re warm, soft, thin little pancakes of gentle goodness wrapped around melted cheeses and tender meats.
I chub up just thinking about them, and the more we talked last week, the more Miss Carol ramped up her cooking verve ’til Friday night was gonna be blinis’ night in oceandoggy land. Get the fuck out of the way.
So she got home and charged into the kitchen and she tried. Over and over again. And each light little blini obstinately stuck to the pan until Miss Carol finally scraped each tired little burned blini-mess into the trash.
At one point I tried to help. I said- hopefully helpfully- I don’t think you’re doing it right.
Then.
On Sunday Miss Carol soaked a turkey in brine. It’s supposed to guarantee succulent, moist meaty meat and it’s something we’d been meaning and wanting to do and try before Thanksgiving but maybe not quite this close. Two turkeys in a week is probably gonna ensure we never eat it again.
Kinda like the leg of lamb from hell. But that’s another story for another time.
Anyway.
So Miss Carol brined him and then we cooked Mr. Turkey spread eagle on the grill, carefully basting him with a spicy lime tequila marinade. And after a couple of hours he tasted just like any other turkey I’ve ever eaten.
Like whatever.
Miss Carol blamed the blandness on me for making her put Mr. Turkey in the oven for a little bit while we went up to the hot tub, but I don’t think so, and besides, the hot tub was WAY more fun than eating turkey twice in four days will ever be.
Happy Thanksgiving, right?
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