My local paper (Cleveland Plain Dealer) ran some Thanksgiving disasters from their readers. What follows is my favorite:
Shortly after I got married, I made my first Thanksgiving dinner. I really wanted to make a good impression with my new husband and I wanted my mother-in-law to know that her son was being taken care of. I anxiously read the directions for cooking the turnkey. It said to baste the turkey every half-hour, so every half-hour I basted. (You see, because I had just learned how to sew, I was used to the term "baste" and thought that was what I was suppposed to do with the turkey.) By the time the turkey was to be done I had already used a spool of black thread. It was the driest turkey I ever ate.
Shortly after I got married, I made my first Thanksgiving dinner. I really wanted to make a good impression with my new husband and I wanted my mother-in-law to know that her son was being taken care of. I anxiously read the directions for cooking the turnkey. It said to baste the turkey every half-hour, so every half-hour I basted. (You see, because I had just learned how to sew, I was used to the term "baste" and thought that was what I was suppposed to do with the turkey.) By the time the turkey was to be done I had already used a spool of black thread. It was the driest turkey I ever ate.
