At 1:00 a.m. on Thursday, November 27, I was laying on my back, counting the dimples in the ceiling.  I couldn’t settle into sleep, the task for the following day (actually, the day’s) was unnerving.  I had to cook a turkey flawlessly, and make the stuffing and gravy. This was supposed to happen after I spent half of the day helping to make sure the biggest Thanksgiving parade was a success.

I kept running the timetables in my head.  I’ll get over to Brooklyn at 2:30 pm, pat the bird dry from the brine it was sitting in, put the seasonings on it, throw it in the oven and take an hour nap before I had to start on the stuffing and gravy.  Wait, we’ll need other burners!  Wait, people have emailed me saying they need to use the oven!  What’s going to happen, is the food going to be cold when we serve it?  At 1:15 am, I remembered something, Courtney’s house had two ovens.  The second one would be the warming box!  With that mental success secured I drifted off to sleep, only to be awakened four hours later for the start of my day.

Everything worked out just fine.  We had plenty of great food, enough for three days of leftovers, good friends and booze.  And it didn’t hurt that everyone loved the turkey.

I threw some bacon on the top of the breast at the last moment, because when is bacon not a good idea?  Unless you’re in a kosher kitchen, then eesh.

What if in an alternate universe, turkey’s trussed up humans and laid bacon on top of their legs before putting them into the oven to roast?  Who cares?  Turkey’s were meant for this day.

Ahh, the sweet smell/look of success.  Thank you non-descript turkey for being delicious.

Turkey coma.  Brandon took three of these, after each plate of food.