The Evolution of a Turkey Chef

Numero uno was Cubano style.

Really, I mean, is there any other way to prepare your first turkey? Especially when no one in the house is Latin. Luckily we were months away from any major holiday. Just two losers, a free turkey, a gas stove and a lazy Sunday afternoon.

Oh, we had a recipe too.

Only the bird in our freezer was much smaller than it required. By at least a quarter.

I might not be a great cook. But I do understand equations.

"Um, don't you think that you should cut the garlic, because of the size of the bird?"

"Oh, yes, dear, you are absolutely right. Thanks for reminding me. If I inserted ALL of the garlic cloves underneath the skin, we would certainly have a turkey on our hands with a disgustingly strong garlic flavor that we probably wouldn't be able to eat," said Andre. "Although I do believe that we would be safe from any vampire attacks."

"And, my darling, I also think it might be best for your gag reflex and mine, if I abandon my ambitious plan to boil the bones for soup," continued Andre. "The smell of death, permeating our small apartment and entire being for weeks, isn't nearly worth the trade-off for that cup of broth."

Needless to say, we were cured from making turkey for a long time. Until last year, when we hosted Thanksgiving at our crib. You can't quite pass that task off.

Round two: another recipe. This one for high heat over a really short period of time.

"Um, don't you think that you should ask me how to set the oven? You've really never used it."

"Oh, yes, dear, you are absolutely right. Thanks for reminding me. If I just push some buttons and try to set it myself, I may actually program the timer to go on and off and on and off and on and off and on and off, over the period of two hours that we're supposed to be cooking the bird on high heat," said Andre.

"And then, my sweetness, when your father tries to cut into the bird, he will be moderately appalled, because three cuts will reveal the pinkest bird that he's ever seen, thanks to the pulsating heating method I've just created," said Andre.  "But truly, that won't even be the most horrible part, because while I've told the story about fifteen times about my co-worker and how they cooked the plastic bags inside the turkey, I'll somehow manage to do the same."

Round three is on Thursday. What'll it be? Third times a charm? Three strikes and you're out?

You've still got time to cancel.

I NEED YOUR URGENT ASSISTANCE AND TRUST

For the past few months, I've been receiving an assortment of colorful e-mails in my freelance in-box. Okay, some would say scams. But, because they're inappropriately sandwiched between the very straight forward details of local events, I find them, for the most part, highly amusing.

Of course, as a writer, I am also slightly disturbed by the editorial quality, content and complete lack of attention to detail. So, as a service to, you, Mrs. Melina Mohammed (great name BTW), I took a virtual pen to your copy. You're welcome.


I NEED YOUR URGENT ASSISTANCE AND TRUST
 
[All caps? Really? And this is your idea of a title that I'm going to respond to? Weak. Better? LET ME RUB YOUR FEET AT MY BEACHFRONT VILLA]

FROM THE DESK OF MRS.MELINA MOHAMMED
AUDITING AND ACCOUNTING MANAGER,
BANK OF AFRICA (B.O.A)
OUAGADOUGOU BURKINA FASO

[What's the street address for this joint? Trust. I don't know that 348 Main Street is really a Kentucky Fried Chicken. And if a corporate bank makes you use a google account--mrsmelinamohammed1@gmail.com--I wouldn't have taken that job in the first place.]

DEAR FRIEND,

[HA! If we're such good pals, I think you'd know my name. At least first. That is, after all, in my e-mail address. My city's there too, if you were observant. Pardon me, but isn't being a good con artist about paying attention to details?]

(CONFIDENTIAL TRUST BUSINESS DEAL.)

[Because mockery of your intelligence doesn't have the same cache.]

I KNEW THAT THIS MESSAGE WILL COME TO YOU AS A SURPRISE; [No shit.] I AM THE AUDITING MANAGER IN BANK OF AFRICA (BOA) OUAGADOUGOU BURKINA FASO, WEST AFRICA . I HOPE THAT YOU WILL NOT EXPOSE OR BETRAY THIS TRUST AND CONFIDENT THAT I AM ABOUT TO IMPOSE ON YOU FOR THE MUTUAL BENEFIT OF OUR FAMILIES. [Way, way too late for that…]

I NEED YOUR URGENT ASSISTANCE IN TRANSFERRING THE SUM OF (USD$22.5 MILLION DOLLARS)TO YOUR ACCOUNT WITHIN 10 BANKING WORKING DAYS. THIS MONEY HAS BEEN DORMANT FOR YEARS IN OUR BANK WITHOUT ANY BODY CLAIMING THE FUND.

[22.5 million dollars?! This is the magic figure you think will call the masses into action? Maybe $250. Or $2500. But this number is way over the top. Do people actually fall for this? Don't answer.]

I WANT THE BANK TO RELEASE THE MONEY TO YOU AS THE NEAREST PERSON TO OUR DECEASED CUSTOMER, WHO DIED ALONG WITH HIS ENTIRE FAMILY ON SATURDAY, 6th DECEMBER, 2003 IN A PLANE CRASH.

[So even if I had relatives in West Africa, which I clearly don't, and even if they died in a plane crash in 2003, which they clearly didn't, perhaps a piece of authentication would serve well here. Like a name? Type of plane they went down in? This is exactly where your scamming empire could benefit from a creative writer on staff.]

I DON'T WANT THE MONEY TO GO INTO OUR BANK TREASURY ACCOUNT AS AN ABANDONED FUND,SO THIS IS THE REASON WHY I CONTACTED YOU SO THAT THE BANK CAN RELEASE THE MONEY TO YOU AS THE NEXT OF KIN TO THE DECEASED. PLEASE I WILL LIKE YOU TO KEEP THIS PROPOSAL AS A TOP SECRET AND DELETE IT IF YOU ARE NOT INTERESTED.

[But what fun would that be? Don't worry. I'm sure no one else is reading this.]

UPON RECEIPT OF YOUR REPLY, I WILL GIVE YOU FULL DETAILS ON HOW THE BUSINESS WILL BE EXECUTED AND ALSO NOTE THAT YOU WILL HAVE 30% OF THE ABOVE MENTIONED SUM IF YOU AGREE TO HANDLE THIS BUSINESS WITH ME, AND 60% OF THE TOTAL SUM WILL BE FOR ME THEREAFTER,AND 10% WILL BE SET ASIDE FOR ANY EXPENSES THAT ARISE ON THE PROCESS BEFORE THE FUND GET INTO YOUR ACCOUNT SUCH AS TELEPHONE CALL BILLS(ETC).

[So, I get 6.75 million. You get 13.5 million? And that's gonna make me think you're an honest human being? I mean, this is a scam right? None of what you're promising is going to come true in the real world to begin with, so why don't we split it 50-50 on paper. It's not like you're going to make good on your word anyway.]  

I LOOK FORWARD EXPECTING TO HEAR FROM YOU.

[I can't respond based on your bad, bad English alone.]

1. YOUR FULL NAME:
2. ADDRESS:
3. NATIONALITY:
4. AGE:
5. SEX:
6. OCCUPATION:
7. MARITAL STATUS:
8. PHONE NO:
FAX:

[Wait a minute...that's all you want? What about my Social Security number? Bank account info? Oh, I guess requesting that falls into universal scam tip-off. Right. My bad.]

N.B PLEASE I BEG YOU WITH THE NAME OF ALLAH, IF YOU CANNOT FINISH THIS BUSINESS DO NOT CARE TO REPLY, I DON'T WANT THIS MONEY TO HANG ON THE WAY.

[N.B.? That I had to look up. It's Latin for Nota Bene aka Note Well. Hey, I guess I did learn something from our correspondence.  Here in the good 'ole US of A, we opt for PS. And really? You had to go invoke the name of Allah? Not cool.]

BEST REGARDS
MRS.MELINA MOHAMMED

[PS Mrs. Melinda Mohammed. Do reach out if you need any help on future projects. I'LL QUOTE YOU A FAIR RATE HANDSOMELY.]

Signed. Sealed. Delivered?!

When our heroine last left Brown, that's United Parcel Service, not the university or her husband Andre, it was late August. A pair of shoes had gone walking in the 'hood.

Luckily, the kindly folks at UPS have a policy to deal with their ineptness. Yup. No more unannounced drop-offs at our house--sort of like what you hope happens with houseguests. We officially became a signature required stop. I know you're jealous.

As far as I could tell, the only thing that drivers have to remember, now, is not to leave anything if no one's home. You know, to sign. So, I found it a bit odd Monday evening, when Andre and I returned home and found something on our stoop.

Hint: it wasn't a baby.

Now I understand, UPS, that your loss prevention tactics are a bit of a drag. Because if no one's home, you know, to sign, my casa becomes an unloading-free zone.

I get it. So why's it so hard for you?

According to the testy local representative sent my way, via my complaint to world headquarters, the driver had obtained a signature. Damn it. My bad. Andre must be teleporting again. Actually, come to think of it, shouldn't I be the one low on patience, since you're not only calling me at 7:30AM, but also working hard to dispute my story.

No matter. It's a new day. A new package on the way. Surely your men won't let me down.

Later that afternoon, Brown's environmental friendly diesel truck alerts me to their arrival. And what's this? There's not one, but two of their uniformed finest, carrying my package. Whew. Glad that group lift concept's understood, because that sucker does weigh 65 pounds and we wouldn't want anyone to get hurt.

Oh look. And they're super friendly too. I can hear them ask someone walking in front of my house if he lives here. I can assure you that he does not. But it's okay. The pedestrian knows who does: Andre. Only his car's not in the driveway. But maybe his wife's home, so how 'bout I open the gate, ring the bell, and check for you--UPS.

Um, why exactly do you have my neighbor involved?

I opened the door to find my neighbor on the stoop. The UPS men? They're almost out of view, rounding the corner behind the house with my package. No worries, their deputized crew member alerts them to the fact that I was indeed home. You know, in case someone wanted to leave the package inside. Or needed a signature. Or wanted to witness the steam coming out of my ears.

Naturally, that rave performance warranted another call to world headquarters. Someone needs to know what a good job they're doing here in Providence. I found out this time, that someone named Brown did sign for the package the day before.

Brown, you know, as in UPS Brown, because a signature of any other Brown, like, say Andre Brown, would seem to constitute fraud.

I got connected back to the local office too. Found out that my route is a training route. For what? I can't be certain. And that one of the two dudes content with leaving my wooden, antique TV stand in the depths of my backyard? A trainer. Which would probably explain why he scurried away so quickly.

I am certain that everything will be just fine from now on. We've stepped up our security measures to the next level. Code triple red: a signature AND id required for delivery.

I'm just not sure whose.

Dear Kim Humphries, ah, Kardashian

Dear Kim Humphries, ah, Kardashian,

Bit of a rough week, heh?

Seventy-two days of marriage. And then bam! It's over before it began.

Ouch. That's got to hurt, especially since your sister Khloe's got two years of marriage under her belt, after a shorter courtship than yours. Full disclosure, here in little Rhody, we think Lam Lam's a-ok, even though he did bail on our beloved URI for the NBA, without sticking around for a degree. Really man. No degree? But I digress.

Know what, Kim? I give you props for getting out quick. Life's too short, right? And so many couples stay together, completely miserable, for way too long. So bravo for your decisiveness.

Granted, I don't know you, well, at all. But you do appear in my living room on the regular, so I can't just sit by and say nothing. Especially when you seem like you could use some advice.

See, the truth is, I really don't claim to be a relationship expert. But I've been with my husband for nineteen years, and married for nearly thirteen. And that's gotta to be worth something. Especially since we still really do enjoy each other's company. A lot.

I met Andre when I was twenty-one. And trust me, the prince charming of my checklist, didn't quite match up with the one I fell for: an unemployment collecting, part-time cinema working, Chevy Sprint driving, outside of my race dude. But what a match we are. I am grateful every day that I have this kind of love in my life. And my man, are you listening Mr. Odom, has earned, not one, but two degrees in our time together.

Dear Kim, I want the same for you. The man, that is, not the diplomas.

Sigh, I watched your four hour wedding extravaganza, all right; it distracts me when I'm working out. And the truth is, I knew that you and the mister weren't going to make the long haul, even with your over-the-top diamond headdress and flawless make-up.  

Life's hard, doll. And if you don't want to sit together during your rehearsal dinner, or can't find room for your honey in your perfect white (decor, not race) world, there's gonna be issues. Couldn't you feel that underlying tension between you? Not love, no matter how much you loved that ring. Or that dress. Or the second one. Or the third.

Damn girl, didn't you get tired of changing?

Truthfully, it's that image you've been cultivating that's the real problem. The same one that's brought you riches and fame. A beautiful, dark-haired, big-eyed princess with a killer body, that every girl wants to be, and every boy wants to be with. Only problem is, you can't come up with that happy ending, no matter how hard you've tried to stage it for the cameras.

So, here's my radical proposition for you: Give up the hunt.

Yup, that's right. No more boys, until you're okay with being you. No, I mean really okay being you. You've got to change your motivations. Go to the party for the party, not because you think that maybe, just maybe, you'll meet your match. Experience life. Meet people. Wear pretty outfits. But whatever you do, don't try to fall in love.

In fact, don't even think about falling in love. Don't long to fall in love. Don't be sad about not falling in love. Don't think about the bambinos that you're not having. Or the anniversaries you're not celebrating. Don't mourn for that secret couple world you think you're missing out on.

Just be. Got that?

Oh, and, there is something else you could do. Right now, you've got the attention of what seems to be the entire universe. So how 'bout you go ahead and use your platform and give the single ladies out there a shout out. Tell them that they're okay all by themselves. That no one, that's right, no one, needs a man to complete them.

Not even you.
 

I Hate Halloween

I hate Halloween. There. I said it.

It has nothing to do with the evil of Satan or any other religious issues. Nope. Plain and simple: I'm far too rooted in reality to make-believe that I'm someone else.

Especially a sexy cat.

My childhood? There's no answers there. I grew up in the 70's, where the pretend industry hadn't quite taken off. Our prep involved going to Woolworth, checking out the assortment of plastic masks, packaged inside cellophaned boxes, and hope the slits doubling for eye and mouth holes, didn't cut our lips. Too much.

As an adult, things didn't fare much better. My costume ideas? Way too cerebral for my un-Martha Stewart like abilities. Like the time my cousin and I went as the pope and Sinead O'Connor, after the music star's 1990's Saturday Night Live appearance.

Before the party, I spent a whole lot of time searching for the perfect flesh-colored, latex, bald-headed, skull cap. I found it. But I failed to take into account the hair-matting gallons of sweat that would be streaming from my overheating body for the rest of the evening. Or the make-up that I should have invested in to blend everything together.

Not quite a smokin' nurse.

Another time, I needed a costume fast. (Or more realistically, someone needed a designated driver.) The only thing at my disposal? My dad's mechanic uniform, featuring size 38 pants and an XL shirt. I wear a 10. My, soon-to-be-drunk, friend helped accessorize me with a red Budweiser cap, worn backwards of course, and a bandana rag.

A temptress vampire I was not.

Actually, maybe it's not Halloween itself that truly irritates me, but this whole cultural movement by way too many females, who use the holiday as an excuse to try to bring sexy back. Especially when I'm the one dressed in greasy work boots.

I guess the bottom line is that we all use Halloween to be something that we're not.

So you do your sexy thing for one night only.

And I'll sport a mustache to hand out candy.