It’s Sunday, I’m pissed. The third time I tried to post this has been erased. So I’m starting again.
I just found out what happened. When I needed to back space I accidentally pressed Delete. But that isn’t all in prior posts I rearranged the content instead of just changing the title. Typically male. Let’s start on last Sunday:

On Sunday I was checking e-mails and realized I didn’t have e-mails, phone numbers or addresses for my nieces. I hadn’t talked to them in maybe six, eight months. No hostility, just never connecting. I sent a quick e-mail to Michelle my younger nice. She called back in an hour. She was on-line when it popped up. She talked to The Murph for a while and he handed it off to me. We were on the phone for an hour. She talked about her life and her kids. I tried to be consoling but I’m not that good at it over the phone. It wound up setting a meeting for Tuesday at five o’clock. I pulled the turkey breast out of the freezer and tucked it into the bottom shelf of the refrigerator.

On Monday I had a semi-plan for Michelle. I made a run to the bank, stopped at Barnes and Noble to pick up some books by Ann Lamott. I got Plan B, Help, Wow Thanks, and Stitches. They’ve helped me, a semi-Humanist. On the way back something semi-stupid happened, I drove into the parking lot of L.A. Fitness. An hour or so later after a tour, explanation of the payment plan and my brain fantasizing about the women I’d meet after my body was fit and trim. Yeah, the male ego was a crucial card. One I played, not them. I spent the rest of the day prepping for stuffing. Using a chainsaw to cut up a sourdough loaf that had been perched on the top of the refrigerator. I added my secret ingredient, Thomas’s Everything Bagels. I avoided browning sausage by using precooked breakfast sausage. The celery, onion and herbs took a spin in the food processor. I packed them away. I got an e-mail. The camera I ordered to make up for getting screwed and feeding my sick ego ordered was due on Friday. I wanted to call the purveyor and find out how he was going to ship it but decided against it.

On Tuesday, doubts about gym membership began to arise. But being picked up in the supermarket by a somewhat desirous divorcee pretty much took care of that. I’m male remember? I hung out until four forty five, I headed towards my niece’s house. I used to live there and I was pretty sure that there would be no problem. Heh, wrong, big time. Everything I remembered was gone. I knew that I had to make a right at the VW dealership. There were so many lights I couldn’t find the freakin’ turn. Getting up the hill was fun because the light was gone and rural darkness was back. I got to the house at 5:01 pm. Nobody home. I drove across the street to the mall thingie to shop for gym clothes. Not a good idea. Apparently a whole bunch of people had the same idea and stores had become specialized most of them lacking sporting goods sections or having tem so focused to sell only to home trainers. I finally got to Michelle’s house. She answered the door with Will her youngest. He introduced himself, a lot. My other niece Carrie, was at the kitchen table, along with David one of Michelle’s twins. About my nieces. I babysat them for a long time. They both turned out pretty well. Michelle made a small slip early in her life, becoming pregnant without the benefit of marriage. Her birth mother had already decamped and the twins were born into a family that loved them and Michelle. Carrie was older and maybe learned a lesson from her younger sister. While Michelle worked kinda blue collar office jobs, Carrie went to college. She became a teacher. She still teaches Spanish in junior high. I didn’t ask where. While Michelle might have broke a moral rule which would have pissed her mother off to the max. Carrie did something else which would have sent their mother over the edge. In school she began dating a Puerto Rican who was a fellow student. My sister was illegitimate as am I, she was bigoted, racist and generally a nasty person. This was something people discovered only after knowing her a while. The visit lasted four hours. We talked about scars, damage and recovery from them. Oh yeah, Carrie isn’t a prim school marm a couple years ago she married Raj a software wiz who really, really pissed my sister off. Great!! Don’t speak ill of the dead? Bulls***. WE promised to keep in touch. Carrie invited me over to her house for Thanksgiving. I had my own plans.

On Wednesday the breast was thawed and ready. I set up a station and began to debone the breast. It took me a half hour. That was a job I did as a kitchen rat in five to ten minutes. Of course, I had the proper tools; filet or boning knife, sinks and a mile or so of stainless steel prep area. The bones and odd bits got into a large pot browned, introduced to vegetables and herbage and bathed in turkey stock. I simmered the mix for hours. The stuffing looked to be waay too much for the meat available. I butterflied the breast and expanded it. The stuffing fit. I laid out the string to tie the sucker up. I tucked, rolled, tugged and finally had a package. I got the remaining veggies together. I had planned on an aluminum pan. I settled on my trustiest piece of kitchen equipment my cast iron skillet. The turkey spent time, uncovered, in the bottom of the refrigerator. The stock got strained and reduced. I brought the remains out to the garbage. I dreamt of turkey and lump-free gravy. I hadn’t thought of a vegetable.

On Thursday, I tried out two new pieces a remote meat thermometer and an oven thermometer. I learned how to operate the remote one about fifteen minutes before the turkey was ready for the hot box. It went in at four, extra stuffing in a separate pan. The oven was 400 degrees fifteen minutes on the timer told into check the skin for browning. It was close. The oven went down to 250 degrees. Around six I heard the beep. I pulled the bird and stick the thermometer probe into the stuffing. It took forty minutes I wanted to take a picture but hunger and old age took over. The meat was moist, the stuffing was wet enough so as not to pull moisture from the meat. It was delicious. The gravy was lump-free. Roux, stock and soy sauce that’s basic gravy.

Friday had me on the road looking for equipment for my exercise program. I got a sweat shirt, sweat pants, shorts, socks and new underwear. What I lacked was a jock strap. I could find them but not in my size. My waist is a bit north of XL. I wanted to avoid a road trip. Nothing locally. Minor anger, but I’d figure something. Friday night, turkey and stuffing with second generation gravy. That’s stock, packaged gray mix combined with leftover gravy.

Saturday, grocery run for vegetables, stop at the P.O. That was a nightmare. Everyone who had no clue as what they had to do were in line. And, there was a whole bunch of them. I complained to the clerk. My question was, “Why, knowing that everyone and God is going to have business at the P.O. don’t you have maybe, one or more people on the counter?” The clerk told me to notify the upper management. I did. The jock strap run began on the Berlin Turnpike and ran to Buckland Hills Mall in Manchester. Buckland Hills is what would happen to a large sized mall if God took a big mother****** hammer to it. It would splatter and spread all over the place. I killed an hour finding the first sporting goods store (no luck) and another fifteen to the next (still no luck). I saw an arrow to Buckland Street. I followed and got onto I-84 East after a bit of defective GPS use, I got to my supermarket. Shopping led me to a CVS who led me to a rather obscure pharmacy who would call me on Monday as to availability. More turkey for dinner with third gen gravy.

The camera came. I needed a memory card. I got one and it didn’t work. I got one today. From here it’s on to e-mail and crosswords and a nap.

See you in the funnies.