And seamen.

And wow. That totally wasn’t meant to sound that bad.

Let’s use a different word.

It’s meant to hold planes and people.

I’m now going to shut up and make this a Almost Wordless Wednesday post while I go bury my head in embarrassment.

This is not a ship. It is a sign.

This is not a ship. It is a seagull.

This is not a ship. It is the iconic statue called, “Unconditional Surrender”.

This is not a ship. It is a couple of buildings.

This is a ship. It’s the Star of India.

This is also a ship. It is one similar to the one Kevin and I will cruise on for our honeymoon in August.

But today? We are talking about this ship.

The one that is so massive, I couldn’t get the whole thing in my frame.

Crap. I said it would be kind of wordless, didn’t I? Okay.

Breaking the silence to say I totally tripped over those.

And to say LOOK! Naked men!

Just teasing. He’s fake.

To keep myself from looking like a complete idiot, I will link to some resources that will tell you more about these things than I can.

To read about signs, click here.

To read about seagulls, click here.

To read about cruise ships, click here.

To read about the Star of India, click here.

To read about the USS Midway, click here.

This my friends, is a Trash Can Turkey.

Yes.

It is exactly what the name sounds like – it’s a turkey, cooked in a trash can.

And it is absolutely delicious.

I will teach you, okay? I will teach you and you will learn to enjoy and love the trash can turkey as I do.

First, you need a turkey.

Second, you need to remove all of those gross entrails. I don’t have photos of this because I was too busy grossing Kevin out with the turkey neck while Ashley convinced Niel that he’s not allowed to eat the gizzard.

Eww.

Clean your turkey and inject her with butter. Or garlicy butter. Or whatever. I don’t know people. I mainly just observe things like this.

While the turkey is being prepped, send your handyman husband out to wrap a board in tin foil and bury it in the ground. He should oblige. Boys like digging.

Ignore the juices. This photo is obviously from after the turkey was done. We’re just looking at the board people.

Do a final assembly check.

Turkey? Yep.

Buried board? Yep.

Tin foil covering the board and surrounding ground? Yep.

Trash can? (Preferably a NEW TRASH CAN, do not use your old trash can or your turkey will taste like, well, trash. Not what we want here, people!)

Okay.

You have everything, let’s begin.

Put the turkey on the board.

Cover turkey with trash can.

Cover trash can and surrounding rim with charcoal and set the coals on fire. This is another job that can be done by your handy husband. Boys like fire.

Wait about an hour and twenty minutes.

Don’t quote me on that.

Instead read the comments below. Ashley will instruct you the time per turkey. Just do whatever Ashley tells you to. I use that same rule of thumb for everything else in life.

I love volunteering people to do things for me. Makes life much simpler.

Once the turkey is done, scoop off the coals and pull off the trash can.

She looks delicious, doesn’t she? But you can’t eat it yet! You need to take the turkey off of the board.

I have no good tricks for this.

Sometimes good old, plain forks will work, but I’ve seen a Trash Can Turkey that was so moist it fell on the ground when we tried to move it (this is why we use tin foil).

Use caution, people.

Here it is folks, the moment of truth: the transfer.

Which reminds me of something. Does anyone ever watch those cake baking competitions on Food Network?

You know how the contestants spend all day working on their cake, perfecting flowers and arranging layers, and it all boils down to that one moment where they have to move their cake, and everything gets really quiet because you fear if you move you’ll somehow cause that fifth tier to come tumbling down?

That was us, totally holding our breath.

But we made it, and we rushed it in to cut it up and enjoy it.

It goes without saying that there is no pictures of the final product. All I can say for that is five out of five campers approve!

Last weekend I filled out a piece of paper (well, okay okay. An online form, who am I to tell you differently), turned it in and someone handed me this:

And turned me loose on the masses of Target.

Only, Kevin is such a guy I didn’t want to use the gun so I gave it to Kevin. (Don’t worry. I made good use of my pointer finger. NO I SAID THAT PASTA DISH, SLAVE! and the like).

(Only kidding).

(Somewhat).

The instructions they gave us were simple enough, scan the actual bar code of the product and not the bar code on the shelf. But we don’t follow rules. Rules are for tools! or something like that.

Seen below for example, Kevin on the prowl for a crock pot. And it’s here in the post that I bring out my biggest issue with registering – it’s not that I have a problem telling people what I want – which I do have a problem with incidentally. No, it’s the fact that I already have the majority of the typical things one would need to start a house. Living alone for a year can do that to you. So it was insanely hard for me to not blurt out, “I already have that”, “we don’t need that”, “already have one in blue”, or “mine will do”.

Kevin knew this would be an issue for me and put up a stipulation on the ride over that I was NOT allowed to say, “I don’t know” or “I don’t care”. To anything.

My question of if, “I don’t have an opinion” counts was ignored.

We spent a good five minutes on each isle, debating plate shapes and cup sizes and pan densities. The crock pot was actually one of the easier picks, seeing as the one I have will only hold about a pound of meat and the lid? Yea the lid is plastic.

Plastic lid on a slow cooker.

Think about that for a minute. I’ll wait.

Crock pot. Number 1 of who knows how many items.

And for the observant, yes that is our registry name if you are interested in knowing, and no I don’t expect you to give us anything but the pleasure of your company.

But if you do want to get us something…Kevin found just the thing he wants, right in the middle of kitchenware.

You read that right. Cereal dispenser.

To him it means no more cardboard boxes. No more of those cheap plastic cereal bags that always rip funny when you open them. Just pour, and enjoy.

To me it means a mess on the counter and having to eat the same types of cereal until it runs out. But I’m a pessimist like that.

All in all it was fun to register together, especially when we found out how similar our tastes are. It’s nice to know that we both have the same taste in toasters, placemats and plungers.

When your boyfriend writes your name in the sand.