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Battle of turkey pot starts war of attrition
(by Christine Thome - January 07, 2010)
BEYOND MY CONTROL, BY CHRISTINE THOME
Battle of turkey pot starts war of attrition
Any marriage counselor will tell you that the first rule to a successful marriage is to pick your battles.
Throughout nearly 20 years of marriage, I have put away his clothes on the floor, the dry cleaning that isn't mine, the tools that remain on the kitchen counter long after a project has been completed, and I have even managed to ignore the snoring and night noises that come from John's side of the bed.
But recently, I have found a battle that I just cannot, and will not, ignore. I call it "The Battle of the Turkey Pot."
This past Thanksgiving, over six weeks ago, I prepared the Thanksgiving dinner, and we were blessed to have my entire side of the family come for the holiday weekend.
Because we only have one stove and a small kitchen, John suggested he purchase a turkey fryer so the oven would be available to cook all the delicious side dishes. Although his suggestion was thoughtful, I knew deep down he was just itching to buy something that had the potential to blow up.
"It will be great!" he exclaimed. "I'll have 45 minutes to myself, outside, with nothing but a beer and a cigar."
"Are you suggesting that you might need time away from my family?" I questioned.
"Not at all, dear," he said. Obviously, he has learned rule No. 2 to a successful marriage -- never say anything derogatory about each other's family.
"You can get a turkey fryer on one condition," I made perfectly clear. "You will clean the turkey pot and all the greasy mess it creates."
"I promise!" he said, his eyes lighting up at the thought of boiling hot oil and flames.
"I mean it," I shook my finger at him. "I. Will. Not. Clean. That. Pot."
"Don't worry, honey, I will take care of everything," he yelled before running out the door to buy the fryer and oil.
Thanksgiving dinner was a huge success, and John's deep-fried turkey was wonderful. As I cleared the dishes from the table, I suggested to him that maybe he should think about cleaning the turkey pot.
"It's still too hot, honey," he insisted. "I'll get it tomorrow or this weekend. I promise."
Well, the turkey pot sat, and sat, and sat. And then one day it miraculously moved from the grassy back yard to the side porch.
"What is that damn thing doing on my side porch?" I asked, looking at the pot that still had creamy grease and fat coating the inside.
"I plan to wash it out with the hose, but it's too cold," he said. "As soon as it warms up a bit, I'll go out and clean it. I promise."
The pot continued to live on the side porch, and I was very tempted to start dressing it with cute little outfits -- kind of like those ceramic yard geese that people buy clothes for at Amish craft fairs. I could dress the turkey pot in a Santa suit in the winter, Uncle Sam attire in the summer and an adorable little witch costume at Halloween.
My parents visited again on Christmas Eve. As they emptied out their car at the side porch, my mother commented, "Is that the turkey pot from Thanksgiving?"
"Yep. I'm refusing to clean it."
"Well, you just keep refusing, girl. Whatever you do, don't you dare clean that turkey pot," she whispered.
By Christmas morning, our trash cans were overfilling, and the leftover appetizers we threw out the night before became a fine Christmas dinner for a little raccoon.
"I'm telling you, it's that damn greasy turkey pot that is attracting him!" I yelled at John.
"No, it's not, he only likes the egg rolls. I think he's an Asian raccoon."
"If you don't do something with that pot right now, I am going to invite the little Asian raccoon into our home so he can perform some Asian raccoon ninja tricks on you!"
From what my children tell me, the pot is still not clean, but John did move it to the basement, where I can't see it.
And that is rule No. 3 to a successful marriage -- out of sight, out of mind.
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