Lately I've been having a lot of escapades.  In the kitchen. 

In my opinion, the kitchen is the bossiest room and I can't stand too much bossing.  But, we made nice because for some reason I decided to change my name to Chef Tasha and cook for Easter. 

I should have known it was going to be exciting when my parents handed Tom to me with a gleam in their eye.  I should have known.

For those of you who don't know, you have to do some preperatory steps with these beasts.  And it all comes down to one word: giblets.  What are giblets?  That's what I asked google.  I was appalled at the answer.  Apparently, people feel the need to sell you the WHOLE bird.  And they gift wrapped Tom's delicacies in a brown paper sack.  And shoved it inside his frozen carcass.

I don't have the best track record with birds.  They like to do their business on me and it makes me mad.  And so part of me didn't mind the giblets.  The problem is, I was a little confused about their location.  I called my dad and he told me to "pretend like you're birthing a calf, Tasha, just reach up there and pull it out."  So I did.

I reached and I pulled and I snipped off what I pulled.  Then I sent a picture of it to my dad, just for verification.  The text I got back was slightly discouraging.

Dad:  Congratulations, you just cut off the Turkey's butt.
Me:   What?!  No. 
Dad:  You're looking in the wrong end, sweetheart.
Me:   Oh.  I see it! Brown paper bag! 
Dad:  That's right, that's it.  Pull it out.
Me:   Just pull it?  That's all?  I pull it and everything will just... come out?
Dad:  Yes.  Easy as that.

For those of you who don't know, giblets are located in the neck cavity.  Not the abdominal cavity.  And, it was not "as easy as that."  You should NOT pull a brown PAPER bag out of a stubborn, squeezed tight turkey neck.  I pulled, I tugged, and.  The bag broke in two, I went stumbling back just to barely miss the heart or lung or something as it went sailing through the air, smacked against my cabinet and slid to the floor.  Meanwhile, the rest of Tom's treasures snuggled into his throat and refused to come out.  That neat little brown paper bag?  Worthless. 

I decided to go back to google; my father, as far as I was concerned, should have removed the giblet nonsense himself.  What was he thinking?  So I went to my How to Cook a Turkey page.  And she told me to "loosen the bird up by moving the legs around."  The frozen legs. You know, you have to get really aggressive with turkeys.  Tom and I had some close moments.   

So after Easter, I embraced my domestic cave woman side and turned into some sort of a hunter and gatherer.  Friends call me up and the words Why don't you come over?  I'll cook keep slipping out my mouth.  I'm on a first name basis with the grocers.  My pots are stressed out, they weren't meant for this sort of labor.  And my finger nails are tragic.  I sleep with the windows open because everything smells like garlic and shallots and ginger.  People can tell what I've had for dinner from the smell of my hair.

But I'm addicted to new ideas and combinations and the satisfaction of getting to the last few lines of a recipe.  It's slightly fattening.  A little expensive.  And very out of control.  Hopefully my trip to The Riviera and its restaurants full of food will calm this culinary buzz.