THANKSGIVING MEMORIES

I have to give credit where credit is due and this time that goes to The Chubby Chatterbox who has posted today on the best turkey he ever ate.

It brought to mind a Thanksgiving tale of our own.  Back in the 1980's we lived in Mexico for several years.  There were many other expatriate Americans living in the area at that time and a bunch of us would gather for parties, probably more frequently than was good for our health.  One Thanksgiving, our good friend L decided to have a party at her house.  She went to a local market and bought about a 15 pound turkey, paying some exhorbitant fee like $2.00 a pound for it.  Only problem: she didn't have an oven.  SWMBO volunteered to cook the turkey for the party.

So, came the big day.  She put the turkey in the oven and turned it on to 475 degrees.  She always does this for the first 15 minutes to sort of sear in the juices.  Then the oven temperature goes down to between 325 and 350 for the rest of the cooking.  So the turkey goes in.  Oven goes on to 475.  SWMBO says "I'll just take a quick shower."

I helpfully poured the first Margaritas of the day.  SWMBO came out of the shower, took a Margarita, sat down, leaned back, and completely forgot about the oven.  Until about an hour later.  She suddenly and violently remembered it and ran to the kitchen.  Pulling the turkey out, it was appearing completely done, very brown.  She tented it with foil and put it back in the oven, now at the much lower temperature.  When it was finally done, she covered it with foil and nestled it into a box with newspapers packed around it.  And we left to cross town to L's.

When we got there, the crowd was pretty much assembled and everyone was enjoying their drinks.  And enjoying their drinks.  And enjoying their drinks.

Judy fretted but what could she do?  Finally it came time for the meal.  The turkey was unwrapped, still plenty warm, and carved.  A miracle!  It was moist and marvelous.  Like the Chubby Chatterbox's memory, probably the best turkey ever.

There's an old expression that says God watches out for fools and drunks.

Happy Thanksgiving, all!

THANKSGIVING 2011

So we're finally getting some real autumnal color.



DARK AND LIGHT

There was something of a light show on the rocks in the Granite Dells yesterday afternoon.  As the sun peeped out of some angry clouds to the south, a shaft of light would illuminate sections of the rocks while the rest were dark.  Imagine an early prospector seeing this as a sign of where to look for riches.

And here's the sky filled with clouds that occasionally allowed a bit of light to peep through.

It looks promising for moisture but as far as I know only a bit of rain came down.  Nice view, though.

TJ'S UPDATE

Since I happened to be in the area this morning, I thought I'd take a couple of pictures and give you an update on the construction of the Prescott area's first Trader Joe's store.  The view is from behind and above.

And in case you have any doubt, there are now a couple of signs decorating the property.

A construction sign further up the road says the store is opening in 2012.  Other spaces in the mini-strip are available for lease.

SUNDAY SERVICE



MY WHISKER THEORY

I had my big black boy-cat on my lap the other day and I was admiring his whiskers.  They seem to be very, very long to me. 



But then I was thinking as I was uploading this photo . . a cat has whiskers for a reason - to warn him when he's getting too close to something or heading into a hole that's too small for him.  They are, in essence, curb feelers.  Now Blackwell has become a very big cat, though as I was trying to weigh him the other day he seemed to be only 17 pounds, which isn't really all that big, I guess.  But if he's pretty wide, he probably needs extra long curb feelers.  I wonder if whisker length varies from cat to cat to accomodate their different sizes.

I didn't come to a real conclusion on that.  But I think my theory may be correct.  The whiskers have to be sort of like what people are saying is wrong with our economy - too big to fail.

FRIDAY NIGHTS AND WEEKENDS

(Check the calendar.)

Yup!  It's Friday night!  Yay!  Hoorah!  Pour me another!  Tequila shots!  Yeahhh!

Back when I was working for a living, Friday nights were time for unrestricted bacchannalia.  (Stop.  Check the dictionary.  Yup.  Spelled that last word correctly.  Proceed full speed ahead.)

Where was I?  Oh, yeah, Friday nights.  As many of us as were left around the t.v. station where I worked and could be convinced that this was the proper way to celebrate the end of a week would head to a bar.  First it was the Mardi Gras.  On to the Playboy Club.  Then the Spaghetti Company.  Later a place our well paid weatherman from the station was a partner in.  Can't remember the name but they poured very healthy (or unhealthy) drinks.  Then it was the Tavern on the Green.  All along Central Avenue in midtown Phoenix.  I think only the Spaghetti Company still exists.

In spite of the fact that we were the responsible journalists and television technocrats in town, we always drank just one more.  One too many in many cases.  Wow!  If I could calculate the gallons of booze that we disposed of in those days, I think even the Guinness folks might be interested.

Of course, there were some flirty Friday nights that sometimes developed into more serious encounters.  I think I'm one of only a few of that long ago gang that is still married to the same woman.

Heady times.  We ruled.  Well that was a long time ago now and since I've been fully retired, I frequently don't even remember when it is Friday night. 

When a gal at the pharmacy asked me last Monday "how was your weekend?", I was stuck for awhile for an answer.  I finally told her "y'know every day is the weekend for me these days."



You know, somethin' tells me old Jerry Lee didn't have too many Lonely Weekends.