THIS?

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!

WELL, IT SEEMS I DIDN’T HAVE TO GO THE EXTRA MILE TO EMBARRASS MYSELF WITH THAT LAST POST. My dad emailed me a photo of even better arsenal.

Let me repeat: MY DAD EMAILED ME.

And because of the magnitude of that event (well, that and the fact that the email was titled, “Blog This!”) I had to post it.

Internet, I would like you to meet me, at age oh seven or so, being what we affectionately call a “picky eater”, or alternately The Girl Who Thought She Was Dying When We Held Her Down And Forced Her to Eat Jelly.

Did I sound bitter about that still? Sorry.

Anywho. This is almost worse than my Hanson photo. I’m guessing by my expression, puffy red cheeks, the ear of corn, and teeny tiny piece of ham that it is Thanksgiving.

Or pretty much any night eating with me.

There’s times my parents thought it was funny, like when I mentioned above that they had my sisters hold me down and Dad shoved a tablespoon of strawberry jam into my mouth. Or the time when they replaced my peas and carrots with fake candy. But I’m sure there were other times that weren’t so much fun, when I was hissy and whiny and pouty all over gross foods that I probably still wouldn’t eat spilled milk. And for these times Mom and Dad, I am truly sorry.

I can only hope that posting this photo was some sort of retribution.

But I need to ask you one last thing: Did I have a mullet?

Much love,

- Your Picky Eater

I SKIPPED MADE ME LAUGH MONDAY BECAUSE I HAD NOTHING FUNNY.

Whoa boy, was I ever wrong on that account. I had something absolutely hilarious happen to me tonight, and that is how I almost set the kitchen on fire. I almost set the KITCHEN on FIRE.

Kevin and I have a favorite food called Chicken Roll ups. It’s chicken mixed with cream cheese and butter, wrapped in croissants and rolled in breadcrumbs. Pure deliciousness. Well, I decided to be Little Miss Helpful – a recipe for trouble all on it’s own – and preheat the pan he was going to use to cook the chicken, so I poured in some vegetable oil and cranked the heat up to high. But I forgot to turn the heat down before I moved on to the next task, MULTITASKING FOR THE WIN, and the next second I turn around to find the entire back side of my kitchen covered in smoke that was rising from the burning fluid. So naturally, I did what any freak of nature would do and I grabbed the pan and turn off the burner.

What was left of the oil instantly turned into flames.

At this point, it was safe to say it was a two foot high, spitting, hissing fire, in a pan that was half a foot away from me. I yelled “Babe!” which is a much better alternative to the unladylike words that easily could have slipped out instead, and I rushed the pan to the sink.

Mistake number one: leaving a pan of vegetable oil on a hot stove. Mistake number two: Putting the pan – which was now on fire, under a constant stream of cold water.

Yea.

Don’t do that.

Wanna know why?

Because you wind up with a flame that goes from a measly two foot flicker to a four foot roaring fireball straight up to the ceiling…while you’re still holding it. And you can say it, I’ve said it plenty of times. I’m surprised those ugly, 1970′s curtains didn’t catch on fire in the process.

I was pretty much lost for what to do at this point. Stop, drop and roll don’t really work unless YOU are on fire.

“Take it outside,” Kevin opened the door and covered his face with his arm as I walked past, awkwardly holding the pan out at arms length. I stood for a good two minutes like that, arm outstretched trying to figure out how to get this pan to stop hissing at me. I finally guessed the cold pavement would be my best bet, so I dumped the remaining fluid in the middle of the driveway and fell to my knees by it.

“Are you okay?” Kevin asked from the bottom of the stairs. I shook my head no and realized I was shaking all over. The odd noise I could hear was coming from me. It was somewhere between a laugh and a half-sob. He wrapped me in a hug and then coaxed me back inside to survey the damage. The entire downstairs was coated with a thick, nasty smoke that burned our eyes and noses. We used blankets to attempt to air it out. It’s one of those smells I’m sure will stick around for weeks. “We’re lucky it didn’t spread…Gram’s has oxygen tanks! Boom! But in the end, nothing can replace a life. I’m just glad we’re all okay.”

I was busy at this point taking photos of the damage and also of this warning label.

“But you got to admit…” he added a few minutes later as we both flapped blankets in the middle of the kitchen, “this’ll make for an awesome Twitter post!”

Postnote: I may have ruined our appetites and scared us a bit, but thankfully in my own defense I didn’t ruin dinner.

I just made him cook it.

Post-Postnote:

I have a confession to make, Internet. On Christmas Eve I came home to realize I’d left my hair straightener on all day, only two inches away from the wall. It left a burn mark on the counter (MOM I’M SORRY AND I GOT THE MARK OFF *thank you Magic Erasers*).

This all goes to prove that I shouldn’t be allowed to use electronics of any type, specifically those that generate heat.

Send help.

**UPDATE: My spreadsheet is found, I now have food  and life is good again**

IT’S MONDAY, AND I’M ALREADY HUNGRY. Is it not enough that it’s Monday? I mean, that’s a huge thing all in itself. Matter of fact, that works as answer to anything:

Aubrey what’s wrong?

It’s Monday.

How’s that spreadsheet coming (oh yea, the one that’s still LOST?!)

It’s Monday.

How’s your Grandma?

It’s Monday.

What’re you thinking?

It’s Monday.

Except this time, It’s Monday and I’m Hungry. I’m hungry and I’m on a quest – for Funions. Kevin and I were driving around the other day and for some insane reason I felt the need to blurt out of nowhere, “Whenever I find Funions, I feel like I’ve won something massive.” I clenched my fists together for added emphasis.

“. . .O. . .kay?” He asked, looking at me out the corner of his eye.

“Well, you just can’t find those anywhere, it’s like a prize. A prize of yummy goodness.”

“Eww.  Funions are sooo gross!” He proclaimed.

“WHAT?! You don’t like Funions?! You don’t like Funions.” I huffed. “You mean to tell me we’re similar in every other way but you can’t stand Funions? Well, then guess what? I hate the vinegar in Salt and Vinegar chips.” Oh yes, I went there. I hated on his favorite chips.

“Well then, I hate the onions in Funions.”

We both bust up laughing and that was the end of that discussion – he won. We agreed to disagree (and what a great first disagreement that was), and get our favorite type of chips anyway – except Chevron was lame and didn’t have either.

However, he made it up to me later when he found my stash of Easy Cheese and Wheat Thins. “Oh my goodness I love these! You’re probably mad that I found them.” Mad, no. Surprised that you like them? Yes.

I got thinking of how much my father hates Easy Cheese. He calls it “Fish Cheese” because he claims it’s so similar to the cheese bait he used while fishing as a kid. He won’t even come close to a can of Easy Cheese if you paid him.  Thinking of that got me thinking of butter. Both are so similar with how they can be processed and sold in so many different forms.

And now butter’s got me thinking about toast, and pancakes, and all the other stuff I’d like to make in the morning when I get up.

But wait.

It’s Monday.

Raincheck to Tuesday? Why yes please.