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| Dude, is the grill supposed to smoke like that? |
True story. When Da-da was in college and everyone was just sitting around waiting for Facebook and Twitter to arrive (really, that's all we did), Da-da was lounging in his modest off-campus apartment -- gleefully childless and well-rested -- on the Day Before Thanksgiving, thinking that he'd stay at school and NOT go home for Thanksgiving. There wasn't any familial bad blood involved, Da-da was just lazy. Besides, he thought he was smart enough to do T-day dinner himself, and so did a bunch of his friends. Jeez, how tough could making Thanksgiving dinner be?
Being new to the bird-roasting ritual, Young Happy un-Child-laden (YHuCl) Da-da thought that the most important element to a proper Thanksgiving was to first procure the largest turkey he could find to feed the three or four guys coming over to watch football. The largest turkey he could find was a 32 lb. monster that took days and days to thaw. Spending all of the night before running water on the thing and preparing all the side dishes in advance, really all Da-da had to do was roast the bird, though it was still half frozen. Once all the guys had arrived and we were collectively cruising on our third beer, Da-da lit the coals.
Coals, you say?
Yes, Young Master Bonehead (YMB) Da-da was going to do his 32 lb. steroidal monstrosity ON THE GRILL, a modest black Weber; indirect charcoal, of course, the bird over the drip tray. Problem was, the turkey was so big that it not only overhung the coals by about four inches on either side, Da-da also could just barely get the lid on. Anyway, Da-da coordinated with Mission Control throughout (that is, Grandma and Grampa Scotty), and all seemed well, at least for the first 45 minutes. A turkey that size would have to cook for about ten years, with several charcoal-adding forays, such that current Old Da-da has no idea what YMB Da-da was thinking. Then came the immortal words:
"Dude, is the grill supposed to smoke like that?"
Da-da looked out on his balcony in horror. The Weber was totally engulfed in white smoke. The turkey had simultaneously auto-immolated and named itself Pope in one fell swoop. Da-da and company put it out with their beers.
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| Tom's gonna feel that later. |
Scientifically speaking, only about 65% of the turkey's body had been charred beyond recognition; the rest was frozen. So, Genius Da-da figured that he could finish the rest off in the oven. Six hours and many many beers later, the bird was STILL not done (way pink) and, well... the one piece Da-da sampled tasted like charcoal and burnt beer and plastic. YES, besides all the other errors, Da-da had neglected to remove the plastic bag of giblets stuffed into the neck cavity. Lovely.
Unfazed, YMB Da-da walked to the strip mall down the way, bought 20 orders of cheeseburgers and fries (with drunk people's money, not his own), then proceeded to sit down with his guests and eat their glorious fire-and-ice repast, along with all the side dishes (which were excellent), the pies and whipped cream, MORE beer (we were in college, after all; beer was a 300-level class) while watching 14 straight episodes of the Monkees marathon on Da-da's awesome small-screen (20") TV, before we lost consciousness.
Later, after something like 8 hours of cooking, YMB Da-da and company put BBQ sauce and sprinkles on the penultimate bird and it was just AWESOME, in a really terrible way. O'course, drunk people will eat just about anything. And one shpould never ever underestimate the power of BBQ sauce and sprinkles.
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| Confetti and sprinkles taste pretty much the same. |
