Remind me not to cook a turkey next year. Or ever again unless we have fifteen people for dinner. So much leftover turkey. So unattractive to me.
I tried, I really did. The first night I turned the leftover roast potatoes into hash browns and reheated some turkey in the gravy. (The gravy was delicious. I made Nigella’s allspice gravy from Feast and it was really good and very little extra work. And I say that as an affirmed gravy-non-maker.) The second night, I made a curry with coconut milk and lemongrass and ginger and the turkey and some snow peas and rice, and it was okay too.
The third night I rebelled and made sausage and tomato risotto, but I diligently had a turkey sandwich for lunch, and another today. I had an idea about turkey tacos, but I couldn’t find queso fresco, and obviously if you’re putting cooked turkey into a taco the rest of it has to be unimpeachably legit, so I can’t make those right now.
But I fear the end of the turkey-eating is approaching, and it is not contemporaneous with the end of the turkey. I know there are other good things I could do with the turkey, and I know I could freeze some, but the chances of ever using what I freeze are slim; it’s just putting off the inevitable. I should make the stock and be done with it. If it’s not too late already to do that.
In other news, it turns out Mabel needs two fillings, and I’m feeling bad about that lollipop I bought her yesterday. B ran his twentieth marathon on Saturday and we’re all so used to that sort of thing that we basically ignored it. (Sorry. Huge achievement, did I mention? Yay, you, honey!) And tomorrow is December, so I really can’t avoid Christmas any longer.
No turkey, though. I promise.