Yes, of course I remembered Dan Akroyd's advice to SAVE THE LIVER!

Do you ever have those things which, in all your glorious disillusionment seem too difficult to attempt? So you think about it, maybe talk about doing it, but give up the day someone says OH THAT'S EASY and then outlines the entire process in 17 'easy' steps.

I've never been one to make a fool of myself in front of an audience, having been scared into my shell as the only one of eight children who wasn't bionic. I grew up with a completely warped concept of what mattered in life. Fortunately, I've always had a healthy ability to laugh at myself. I once totally smashed my boobs in a sliding door (I always knew I had poor depth perception), and my co-workers still talk about it.

Despite my affinity for the Food Network, I've only begun to love cooking in the past year or so. Post-Europe really, when I realized God never intended for certain things to be fried. Like most kids, I was averse to food if I knew what was in it. I was also the kid who refused to eat PB&J. To this day I don't eat condiments, though I've come a long way from segregating the food on my plate. My journey of discovery is slow and my methods are simple. Nothing terribly fancy or even sharp, not since the last time a Stillar wielded a Cutco and lost. Mom ended up in the emergency room without a fingerprint, so remember kids, mandoline minus a hand-guard = painful, yet effective.

I might've manned up sooner, but my roommate likes to joke that I have no domestic abilities. Which is funny, because the last time I checked, I was the one constructing a gourmet sandwich while she snacked on last night's popcorn. At any rate, she'll walk into the kitchen and be all YOU'RE COOKING? LET ME CALL HELL, IT MUST BE FROZEN OVER. 


And she wonders why I never share.

Some people are placed on this earth strictly to give us humble reminders that we are not, in fact, the shit. I happen to live with the queen bee. Go me.


I'd bought a bebe turkey, which once thawed and sitting in my sink I then stood over for a few moments before chastising myself for having long fingernails. Totally disgusting I know, but I'm pretty sure our parents ate paint chips and look how they turned out. I gave it a patdown, threw it into the roaster, stuffed it with an orange, poured in some wine and popped it in the oven. Then Cassie showed up and I was all YOU MISSED IT, I JUST SPENT THE LAST 10 MINUTES DOING A PUPPET SHOW WITH THE DARN THING!

I'd read that cooking it breast-down allows the juices to seep into the meat, so we'd flipped it over after that picture was taken. At that point I had a few hours on my hands, since the rest of the prep required all of 5 minutes. Cranberries from a can and mashed potatoes from flakes. I'd made such potatoes for my ex-boyfriend once, he'd never had them before and kept saying THESE CAME FROM A BAG? And let me tell you, I've never felt so accomplished in my life.

Once it came out of the oven, I stared at it for a bit. Like, that was too easy. Something had to be wrong. Remember the scene from National Lampoon where he goes to carve it and it splits down the center, completely hollow? THAT WOULD HAPPEN TO ME. Yet despite my fears, it came out delicious. The gang came over, and we rounded out the feast with green beans fried w/ garlic, rosemary bread w/ parmesan, and...of course...wine. Isaac carved, I poured, and everyone shared and laughed. I'd cook a homemade dinner every night if it meant my family around the table, laughing as they do so well.

And yes, anything to do with hot wax gone wrong is worth telling.

Gobble gobble.