November 25 – “Turkey Fry Day”

Yes, today really was Turkey Fry Day.  It started early.  I was at WalMart at 8 to buy some propane to power the two fryers.  Chris took Mom to a doctor appointment.  By 8:30 the fire was burning and the grease was heating up.  Josh and I started in at around 9:00: pull two turkeys out of the fridge, hook them up to the lowering contraption, gently ease them into the grease, adjust the temperature, wait an hour, pull the first two out and put the next two in, wait for the first two to cool, carve the first two, throw away the bones, and start the process all over again.  We did that until we had fried eight turkeys.    Then we got to number nine.  He was a big one.  Sam gave us this one.  Twenty-two pounder.  And our fryer pots are supposed to hold no greater than thirteen.  But Ol' Tom was already marinated.  And Nathan was here, so we had a fireman present.  We decided to go for it.  He and I headed out back, turkey in his hand.  I had the pot lid in mine.  I was shield bearer for the mighty turkey slayer.    We circled the pot, staring at the hot grease and mentally figuring just how much of it would be displaced by Ol' Tom's bulk.  Unknown to us, we had an audience.  Every nose in the house was plastered to a window, watching … waiting.  What would happen?  Would they really go through with it?  Finally, our eyes met.  Nathan broke into that huge grin I remembered so well.  I had seen it on several occasions.  Like when he roller bladed off the roof of the house.  And I knew.    Slowly he lowered.  Carefully, I maneuvered into shielding position.  Up rose the scalding hot grease.  Higher.  Higher.  Until it began to trickle over the edge, racing down the side of the pot in search of the flame that would cause it to spring to life.  And the trickle became a stream, and the stream an overflowing fountain.  Just a few more inches and the mission would be complete, the turkey would be submerged.  Tongues of flame licked out from beneath the pot, devouring as much of the tasty liquid as it could.  By this time the ground was saturated beneath the cooker.  Fritz the dog was licking his lips in anticipation.  The shield was in place.  Nathan shifted his weight to remove the handle.  And it was in.  With minimal extraneous flamery.  The shield held, and I dropped it in place over the pot.  We all – finally – exhaled.  And the final wait began.  Eighty-eight minutes.  An hour and a half.  That's a long time to fry something.  And Chris proclaimed, "This turkey we shall eat on the morrow."   Proverbs 16:27 says, "A scoundrel plots evil, and his speech is like a scorching fire."   Father, after watching those turkeys today, I want to watch my speech.  Save me from scoundrel-ry.  Amen.