Slut Turkey and guest Laura Griffin :o)

Hi everyone. I am thrilled to welcome Laura Griffin ( who is NOT a slut turkey) to the 'vert today. Please make her welcome and wow, she's got a GREAT giveaway for you all!

Slut Turkey

Is it really Thanksgiving? I don’t know how it got here when one minute ago I was rushing around Walmart looking for number two pencils and braded folders.

I sat down to write this blog, fully prepared to do the whole thanks-for-having-me!-please-buy-my-new-book! (but with some sort of clever twist that I was still banging my head against the keyboard trying to come up with). But then I looked at my calendar and realized I was scheduled to visit you all at Riding With The Top Down on Wednesday, the day before Thanksgiving!

So there went my book pitch (although, please do consider buying it). How about we talk turkey instead?

This is the story of my first Thanksgiving as a blushing bride… well, not really blushing. Actually, I was engaged and living up in Chicago and somehow my fiancé and I got roped into having our two college-student sisters join us for turkey… which I ambitiously offered to cook because my mother was way down in Texas. Of course, being hundreds of miles away didn’t stop my mom from wanting to help.

First, there was the barrage of “foolproof” recipes. I think I got at least twelve detailed letters from my mom and all of her closest friends. Lack of confidence in my culinary abilities? Perhaps. I am what you might call a distracted baker. My half-inch tall “cakes” are legendary. And then there was the three-layer sliding-icing cake that ended up naked in a pool of buttercream… But I digress!

Of the twelve helpful recipes, I chose Turkey in the Sack. I chose this recipe (which my sister dubbed Slut Turkey) not because it was pitched to me as foolproof--although that was supposed to be one of its attributes--but because there are few people I trust more than my mother’s best friend, and she swears by this recipe. Good enough for me.

So I bought my bird. I bought my ingredients. I even bought a card table so that our Thanksgiving guests would have an actual place to sit while they ate dinner in our closet-size apartment, where we usually ate on stools at the counter. I was prepared. And so on that bright Thanksgiving morning I got up and got straight to work.

The panic started early.

Step one: Prepare the bird.

My mom awoke at 7 a.m. to a desperate phone call. “Prepare?! What does that mean??”

She quickly set me straight with instructions on washing, drying, etc., etc., this slimy, almost-frozen thing that had been sitting in my sink overnight.

For the next five hours (Yes, five. I assure you, this was a large bird. I was terrified of running out of food and not having leftovers.) I followed my mom’s best friend’s instructions to a T! I did not miss a step. I did not deviate. I did not get creative. I got that bird washed and seasoned and stuffed in that paper sack and sealed up tight, so it could cook to a succulent perfection. And I did not peek once, as I was strictly instructed by the recipe, and in my mom’s best friend’s handwriting off in the margin.

Finally, it was time. I took the bird out of the oven, and the kitchen smelled heavenly. It smelled like my grandmother’s house! Can you imagine how proud I was? The soon-to-be bride serving her sister and soon-to-be-sister-in-law a delicious, home-cooked Thanksgiving meal in our cozy little apartment with the card table beautifully set and the folding chairs arranged so invitingly around it… I was beaming with pride.

I put the roasting pan on the counter and decided to start the gravy.

Step One: Prepare the giblets.

I frowned. I pondered. I searched the kitchen, the fridge, the trash can for clues. For the sixteenth time that day, I called the Mom Hotline.

“Mom? Yeah, the turkey looks great, but what the heck is a giblet?”

Well, clearly I am not the only person incapable of following a “foolproof” recipe. I know this because I got off the phone with Mom and called Butterball, and turns out you know those nice plastic bags containing necks and turkey innards? The ones they stuff inside the bird for you to pull out before cooking? Turns out those bags are made of non-toxic material. My family is living proof.

What is your worst Turkey Day mishap? Leave a comment about anything at all and be eligible to win a signed copy of my new book, UNFORGIVABLE, and a $25 Amazon gift card to help you get started on that holiday shopping. Good luck!

Oh, and one last plug for the new book. Here’s what Publishers Weekly had to say about it: “The science is fascinating, the sex is sizzling, and the story is top-notch, making this clever, breakneck tale hard to put down."

Happy Holidays and happy reading!

Laura Griffin is the bestselling author of seven romantic suspense novels, including UNFORGIVABLE, which comes out Nov. 30. Laura’s books have won numerous awards, including a 2010 RITA Award, a 2010 Daphne du Maurier Award, and the 2008 Booksellers Best Award for romantic suspense. Visit her web site at www.lauragriffin.com.

Kathleen's Musings: Turkeys and Times a-Changin'

This guy lives in my backyard. I always like to start with a photo, and Romeo (as my granddaughters call him) has little to do with the topic, but he's been yakking at me a lot lately, so I snapped his picture through the window. He's huge. He has a bevvy of ladies out there--hence his name--and we think he was actually hatched in our little woods, which have been always home to all kinds of wildlife, but the turkeys have only been around for a couple of years. We've left our backyard alone pretty much because we're flanked by bits of undeveloped parkland on both sides, so we just go with it. Anyway, I give you Romeo.

An editorial in Wednesday's Mpls Star Tribune spoke to one of my recurring sources of guilt. I'm not particularly a guilt wallower except when I start getting this niggling feeling that the world is passing me by in a way that I really ought to care about. You know, for the sake of my career. Generally, it has to do with technology.

The editorial's headline: "OMG: It's time to write a headline." It's about the effects of technology on our brains and our lives, and the writer cleverly flips back and forth between his message and incoming messages. "The implications are worrisome because...hold that thought...We're getting an e-mail about..." And I cringe just reading this because I know this happens to me. I'm in the room with a real human being, and only half my brain is engaged. The other half is parceled out among my gadgets--TV, computer, cell phone. I'm pretty sure my brain doesn't function well that way. And I'm only straddling a couple of bandwagons. I don't text. I don't tweet, twitter, whatever. I'm not on Facebook. (I've heard that My Space is already "so yesterday," so that's one I'll stop feeling guilty about.) But I keep hearing that today's conscientious businesswoman must get with the programs or else.

The editorial refers to Marshall McLuhan's claim (46 years ag0!) that technology was beginning to overtake content, and he was talking mainly about TV. His book is often mis-referenced as The Medium Is the Message. The Strib neglected to point out that the actual title of the book is The Medium Is the Massage. It was assigned reading when I was in high school, and I remember the discussion of the title and the message/massage pun. Worth thinking about, especially now that we're inundated with new gadgets. It's impossible to keep up, and I'm beginning to wonder why we try. Are we addicted to the massage?

According to the NYT (referenced by the Strib) "we have tripled our information intake over the last 50 years, but no one thinks we're three times smarter."

I think part of the problem is that people have become lazy about evaluating information and seriously considering the message, but that's probably a topic for another day. I'm concerned about our willingness to consider the value of the medium. Are people who send and receive amazing volumes of text messages daily missing something besides spelling and punctuation?

Seriously, am I missing something? Am I becoming the fuddy-duddy I rolled my baby blues about back in the day? Or are we--and this is my fear--losing something in terms of personal human touch, not to mention the human intelligence department?

Giving thanks for the power to amaze

Let’s face it. The word ‘amazed’ is often over used. “I’m amazed I finished my book.” No, I’m not. I knew I was going to do it because I HAD to do it. Another standby: “I’m amazed that I ate the whole thing!” Actually that wasn’t so amazing either. It was good. It was there. I ate it. All of it.

The point I’m trying to make is that it really isn’t often that an act or an event justifies the use of the word ‘amazed’. But I heard a story on the news the other day that touched me and made me feel all warm and fuzzy and … well … amazed. Bear with me, here goes.

This couple was traveling in their RV in the Midwest, heading north. They stopped at a truck stop for a bite to eat and when the woman got out of the RV, she spotted a monarch butterfly on the pavement. One of its wings was broken. She was so touched by the plight of the butterfly that she carefully picked it up and carried it back into the RV. She and her husband got on the Internet and did a little research and low and behold, they discovered a method of fixing a broken butterfly wing. So they did it. They mended the wing.
They got to talking with a cross country truck driver who was going south and asked him if he would take the butterfly with him to Florida. He very willingly agreed and set out on his way with the butterfly. Once there, as promised, he released the Monarch, which promptly flew away and then he called the couple in the RV and let them know that his delicate cargo had made the trip and was doing fine.

Amazing, right? An amazing act of compassion. An amazing act of kindness. Absolutely amazing that three people would go to such lengths and extremes for the sake of a tiny little butterfly that could have ended up just another bug on the highway.

I am so thankful to live in a country where there are people who would mend a broken butterfly wing and people who would transport a butterfly in an 18 wheeler clear across the United States just so it could finish its migration. Those acts are true reflections of the American spirit and generosity. It’s those same types of people who dig into their pockets and their hearts to help earthquake and flood victims and stock local food pantries and volunteer at hospitals and give to animal shelters. Those same people pull tags off Angel trees at Christmas and buy gifts for children they don’t know, or send care packages to our deployed troops – again, who they don’t know - so they’ll know someone back home appreciates what they do.

In short, I’m thankful that this world still has the power to amaze me – in good ways. In ways that justify the word to the deed. How about you? Have you been amazed recently? I really want to hear about it. And in the meantime, Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!