Turkeymares

The nightmares start about now.  Usually there is a bird involved.  In last night’s scenario I was cooking a giant turkey on an outdoor BBQ in Australia (of course) whilst being attacked by an albatross sized seagull.  I was calling out to my family to help me but they had all sculked off because I had shouted at them for not watering the plants (of course).

Turkey.

My cousin Christine’s daughter is cooking the turkey for their whole family this year and already Christine is in a panic worried that Katie will not get the food on the table all at the same time.  Although it is not hard to place a large fowl in the oven,  getting five veggies, pigs in blankets, stuffing, cranberry sauce, bread sauce, and roast potatoes perfectly cooked, piping hot and ready at the same time is bloody hard work.

That’s my family, Christmas is all about food.

How  many times has Madre asked me if I have ordered the turkey?  Seven.

I have been lying.   Since end October.  I only actually ordered it last week.  I called up Norbert our local butcher in Genolier and was given a salient lesson on Swiss charm.  My phone here in London has been playing up.  This obviously infuriated him and he yelled at me for making him pick up the phone three times.  I presumed he thought I was a child – this happens sometimes with my voice – and calmly told him who I was, implying that we have been customers for years and hoping that soon the penny would drop.  But no, Norbert was having a funny.  I then placed my massive Christmas order, as I do every year and he gruffly repeated everything back to me.

Here in London,where the economy is not doing as well as Switzerland, customers are made to feel, if not special, then at least that their custom is appreciated.

Ah bon. He’s probably still annoyed with me after that year he sent Mr. J. home with two small turkeys instead of one large one and I called him threatening to send Madre over to sort him out, and gave him a sob-story about how my whole Christmas would be ruined if I opened the oven and presented two chicken-sized turkeys at the table.  I’m not kidding.  I don’t know whose turkey I got in the end and who got the two small birds, well actually I do, and strangely enough we are no longer on speaking terms.  That’s how far I will go because that is how much pressure I AM UNDER!!!  (English people understand this).

Last year it was Madre’s turn to go to my sister’s for Christmas and just as well as I got the timing of the turkey wrong.  I’m blaming it on the oven but in hindsight it possibly had something to do with the hour required to bring it to room temperature which I sort of forgot about.  I texted the chef in the family , my brother-in-law, who sent back the following:

“I’ve researched it and it appears that European turkeys take longer in the oven than standard UK turkeys”.

I fell for that one.