So, last year I successfully (which here means, ‘without giving anybody botulism’) roasted a 25 pound turkey and thought I was pretty hot stuff. And then there was the year I managed a 30 pound beer-basted prime rib roast. Or the time that I whumped out fourteen pies in a single morning.
Oh yeah, I said to myself on these occasions, Who da chef? I’M DA CHEF, BABY.
The funny white hat, she is passed to Mr. Rich Portnoy.
To win in a game of sibling rivalry gone way past the usual limits, he has roasted up a Seventy-Two (72) Pound Turkey.
His sister did a 47 pound (!!!) monster last year, trumping the paltry 37 pounder (!!) her brother found.
SO THIS YEAR, Mr. Brother Guy went straight to the source and found this gigantic beast and put it into his “36-inch-wide, chef-caliber oven” (when I read that, I blurted out, “Well, but, that’s like…CHEATING OR SOME JUNK!”, which is nothing but green-eyed envy at its finest…) and his sister had concede defeat.
“…but noted that her brother's large oven gave him an edge.”
YES! EXACTLY! It doesn’t count! IT DOESN’T COUNT!!!
So, in the interest of fairness, I think I should trade ovens with Mr. Portnoy, and then he and his sister can have it out in a clean, fair fight.
I am willing to make these kinds of sacrifices, this is how good a person I am.
Any time you’re ready to make this a good, clean fight, Mr. Portnoy – call me.
I’m here for you, buddy.
NASA, Cocoa Beach and points north
4 months ago