Last Monday I finally cooked the turkey I'd purchased on sale back at Thanksgiving. Since it was missing the sale tag, I hoisted it onto my shoulder and hauled it upstairs where I stepped onto the bathroom scale to determine an approximate weight. Fifteen pounds. It was a decent sized baby, heavy enough that I wouldn't want to cart it up a mountain or around the block.
Back downstairs I popped it into an oven bag and placed it in the oven. No stuffing this bird. I didn't have the time and didn't want to prepare an entire Thanksgiving-ish meal for only three people. (It's just three of us at home now... Strange.) We've made good use of that turkey this past week. We've eaten it with rice, potatoes, as turkey salad, and in soup. Today My Darling cooked up a big pot of green chile posole and we're eating it topped with sour cream, warm corn tortillas on the side. So yummy!
That big old turkey's had me thinking this week. I could stand to drop about 30 pounds which means I'm carrying two of those old birds around with me everywhere I go. The truth is I carried them up a mountain last August. Something just ain't right about that.
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