But, for some reason, the turkey didn’t want to cook. It sat in the oven—all thirteen, fully thawed pounds of it—for three hours and forty-five minutes. When I took it out, the juices were slightly pink. I cooked it another thirty minutes, airing on the side of caution, then, instructed Rey to carve it up.
The final product was somewhat…how do you say…pink. Don’t get me wrong, I love my beef bloody. But, bloody turkey seems dangerous. And by dangerous I mean salmonella infested. Even looking at it may result in death.
So, I ate it. And after half a plate, pretending to stay true to my diet, I excused myself to the couch to admire the blog’s new layout. But before I could get the computer on, it hit me. I was extremely nauseous. My stomach was upset. My palms were sweating. I was disoriented.
I was exhibiting the beginning stages of salmonella poisoning.
I passed out in a fit of panic and after waking to throw my guts up in the bathroom, I still feel the salmonella festering in my intestines. Now, granted, I have had about six glasses of wine, but still, I ate undercooked turkey!
I’m praying I’ll live to die another day. It’s not looking promising.