Even though it was a bit delayed, we hosted our first Thanksgiving dinner in Paris over the weekend. Things started out a bit rocky with Mr Turkey when we picked him up last week from the local American market (which is fantastically named The Real McCoy). It turns out they don't do the whole nicely-sealed frozen turkey thing here, so this big boy arrived wrapped in butcher paper fresh as a daisy with a few feathers to boot. We ended up putting him on ice for a day and then letting him defrost in the fridge so that he made it to Sunday. The next obstacle was our roasting pan - turns out, it doesn't fit in our small oven. And neither did the turkey with his stiff legs stretched out. I actually googled "turkey rigor mortis," which is definitely a thing, but was't apparently the source of our problem. When it came to cooking him, it was really anyone's guess if we'd be able to actually fit him in the oven. Armed with some good string, elbow grease, and sheer determination, we did it. His legs ended up hanging over the pan we used to set him on, and if he had been a pound (or kilo, as it were) bigger, we would have had to take him to the butcher and beg to have him cooked on the rotisserie. Mr Turkey ended up being named "MacGyver", as Michael and I had to seriously improvise and bend a few well-established kitchen rules to make it happen. Our next hurdle came when it was time to set the table, which normally seats 6 and needed to stretch on this occasion to 10. A few strategic folding chairs from a friend and we were in business. We also turned the hutch into a cocktail bar - complete with holiday-appropriate drinks: "Plymouth on the Rocks"; "The Mayflower"; and "Squanto's Revenge".
In the end, it all turned out great. We got to celebrate Thanksgiving at our apartment in Paris with some pretty great people we've met over the past year. For that, I am truly thankful.
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AuthorBecause why not get married and move to Paris to really kick off your thirties? Archives
December 2016
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