MyLarry was to be home, so I cooked a wonderful bird, a 14 lb. turkey I'd been thawing. After a cold water bath in the sink, I shoved an onion and an apple up its bum, massaged it with oil, doused it liberally with garlic and celery seed and lemon pepper and sage and paprika. (The bath was for the bird, not me. I bathe in hot water in the tub.) Then I made little foil wingtip covers, poured a bottle of black ice tea in the pan, threw it on the rack and slapped it in a Very Hot Oven. A bit later I turned down the heat and let the bird bake. I did not baste, I did not use butter in the cavity as I normally do. Three and a half hours later, I stuck a thermometer in it and called it good. The smell drove me mad all afternoon. When I took it out, the bird was a beautiful allover brown with an herbal crust, crinkly and crunchly skin. I let it rest and finally whacked a chunk off. Oh my, this was the tenderest, juiciest turkey I had ever cooked. And Larry wasn't home to enjoy it. Or carve it for that matter. He got home at 3:30 in the morning, turkey was the last thing on his mind. (If you know MyLarry, you know what was on his mind, even at zero-dark thirty. Poor me. Not!)
The bird now rests in the fridge, swaddled in foil. I did not slice and dice it; turkey carving is not one of my skills. The entire kitchen still smells of spices and roasted happiness. I am glad I skipped Thanksgiving cooking; I have leftovers all my own now.
I did not make gravy. I did not feed the funky interior meats to my cats. I did not give any turkey to Cricket as she has unreliable plumbing.
Oh, did I mention this was a $.49 a pound bird? Hah!