Revenge of the Turkey

I decided to cook a Thanksgiving style dinner today: turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes and gravy. And naturally, I opened a bottle of wine to assist me in this endeavor. It was a mellow Saturday afternoon. Cooking always relaxes me. I enjoy hovering over the food, adding spices, tasting, etc. I take solace in the fact that a finished product is never too far around the corner. And it certainly doesn’t hurt that I can eat the finished product when it arrives.

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.