I have never used a meat thermometer, although I do have one that was provided to me by Blind & Visual Services when they came to the house about a year after my vision loss to see what tools and gadgets they could offer me to assist with daily living. I think this particular thermometer beeps or maybe even says the temperature, I know the digital screen is very large. I do, however, utilize cooking bags whenever I make meat in the oven, whether it be a pork roast or a turkey. On Thanksgiving morning last week, my husband helped me prepare the turkey before putting it in the oven. He removed the bits packed inside, I cleaned the turkey and patted it dry, the job I was always given by my nana when I was a young girl.
Pouring flour in the cooking bag, I held it open while Mister Rain lifted the turkey and slid it into the bag. “There’s no popper,” he said, referring to the pop-up timer that indicates when the turkey is cooked. “Yes, there is,” I replied. I had felt it when I washed the turkey. “No, there isn’t,” he countered. I saw him standing over the turkey, now in the pan, as I moved on to prepping other things for our dinner.
Hours later, I asked him to check if the popper had popped. “I told you there is no popper,” he said, in a tone that was very un-holiday-ish. “There was a popper,” I lobbed back to him, my patience thin over this topic. I assumed he had found it before he put the turkey in the oven. “I told you there wasn’t,” he shot back, standing in front of the open-doored oven. Completely over it now, I reminded him, “We always buy a turkey with a popper.” “I know. It said it had a popper on the bag,” he cannoned back. “Close the oven door! I have no idea how we’ll know if it’s done. You’d better go Google it,” I ordered. He left the kitchen in a cloud of indignation, while I remained in my own mist of frustration. He returned shortly, reporting that if the juices are clear, the turkey is done.
Mister Rain is color blind. And unless the juices are blue, I am of no help whatsoever, as that is the only color I can see. “Should I use Be My Eyes?,” I questioned, referencing the app that places a video call to a sighted volunteer who can see via the camera on my phone whatever I need help with. “No, it looks good,” he said.
After letting the turkey rest, he removed the cooking bag and set about carving while I got the sides ready. “This doesn’t look right,” he somewhat
mumbled. “What?,” I asked, not fully interested or paying attention. No reply. Then, a few minutes later, “I don’t think this is a turkey.” “What do you mean?,” I sighed. In rare situations like this, it isn’t unusual for my normally laid-back husband to not to respond to me. I kept doing my thing, he left the kitchen, coming back with his phone with which he took some pictures. A few more minutes passed with no sound of the electric knife. Finally, from him, “We’re okay. I know what’s wrong.”
“You put it in the pan upside down, didn’t you?,” I proposed. I had had that thought as I tied up the cooking bag before we put the turkey in the oven, one of those moments where you think you imagined it and therefore you throw the thought away.
“I thought it was a duck,” Mister Rain said.
The good news? It was delicious.
The bad news? We usually make a turkey at Christmas too.
#sisterrain #alittlesightalotofheart #legallyblindwriter #thanksgiving #leftovers #thanksgivingleftovers
