A few years ago some of my relatives came over for Thanksgiving, three cousins on my mother's side, Her Royal Princess Doreen the pauper, and her older sister Dawn the cat lady, and her husband Don the retired Navy Master Chief. Now I have a mild allergy to Turkey that causes me to need Omeprazole well beforehand if I am to avoid nausea and semi-terminal acid reflux, so I decided to make a beef prime rib roast and pork roast in the super non-stick roasting pan that barely fits in the old GE oven. The best cuts from Costco were purchased, both were pierced and stuffed with garlic, the pork also stuffed with sprigs of fresh rosemary, and both marinaded overnight with McCormick's Meat Marinade in the refrigerator.
Come the morning and day of the great arrival, I peeled sufficient potatoes and onions, and washed a small bag of baby carrots. After quartering the potatoes and onions they were placed around beneath the rack holding the meat, and the carrots evenly distributed on the top of both. Then I added a can of beef broth and a liberal drenching of Imported Portuguese Port wine, and an ounce or two of Italian balsamic vinegar to the bottom of the roasting pan, then festooned the pork roast with a meat thermometer. The entire load of deliciousness was slid into the oven timed to be done just in time shut everybody up about family crap I had no interest in, except for Don who had good sea stories about being blown up in Viet Nam and later, after being repaired and regaining his eyesight, how he enlisted in the Reserves to finish out his 20 years.
After the roaster had been sizzling for a couple of hours, like an expectant steam locomotive waiting to high-ball over the Overland Express Route, I pulled the top cover off so the meat would develop a nice brown crust instead of turning into pot roast, and the same for the potatoes, that nice brown crust adding flavor when they were mashed down on the plate and topped with melting butter. The onions would cook up sweet, and the carrots too, with a hint of wine like tanginess.
Finally the party arrived at the table to begin with a nice green salad, then main courses were served, along with a platter of my garlic bread made with just garlic, butter and crusty sourdough bread toasted to a light brown. Red wine was also served, and my wife made the effort to use her seldom seen Hungarian crystal wine glasses. Now Princess Doreen commented, "What no turkey?" Demonstrating her haughty disdain for peasant food. Her sister Dawn however mentioned all the work that went into the repast, and Don took a few bites and said, "Boy this is good stuff!" For desert we served my homemade pumpkin pie, made with a liberal substitution of Bacardi Gold Rum for part of the required milk, topped with whipped cream, and served with Kona coffee. At the conclusion of the meal Her Highness, ever the traditionalist so taken with the accouterments rather than what was important said, "Tomorrow everyone can come over to my place and we'll have turkey, and I'll use the good dishes!" Seems my wife used our everyday dishes rather than the fine china her late mother left her.
My wife was heard to say to Don, "You know Don." pointing to me and my cousins, "The good thing about you and me is we aren't related to them by blood." Don laughed, the other two missed the comment while hashing over long ago memories that still didn't mean anything, I smiled.
They are all gone now, and as irritating as they could be, I miss them every holiday.
Last edited by WranglerJohn; 11/24/17.
