Mother of All Roasting Pans

Yesterday, after teaching class at xxxx community college, and after lugging home all of Voltaire Villanueva’s psychology books from his mailbox, self dropped by Bloomie’s and picked up Mother of All Roasting Pans.

This roasting pan (which self had “pre-paid” in a “pre-sale” three days ago) was so big that, after saleswoman handed the box to self, using the biggest brown shopping bag available at Bloomingdale’s, it kept dragging on the ground (despite self’s best efforts to heft the darn thing) while self walked to her car. Which is to say, box was almost as tall as self.

Interestingly enough, right after Bloomie’s self had to drop by the post office (to drop off another entry in yet another contest: Self is of the opinion that, as she seems to be in a zone with regards to contests, she might as well start sending out her work like crazy). And there self got into a conversation with a Filipina who’s been working at the Post Office for almost as long as self’s been living in Redwood City. The conversation revolved around — what else? — what we were going to cook for Thanksgiving (Self was not being obnoxious, dear blog readers. For some reason, yesterday post office was absolutely empty). My P.O. friend asked if self was going to cook a turkey, and self replied in the negative because, she explained to friend, it always ends up too dry.

And P.O. friend then asked self if she had ever tried deep fried turkey. And self thought (to herself): Only a Filipina could bring up the notion of deep-fried turkey. But aloud she said no, she had never tried such a fabulous dish. And P.O. friend recommended that self try Popeye’s, which was a brand self had never heard of (Self learns new things almost every day!), and so self had to come out with the notepad and pencil and write down: Popeye’s.

Then, P.O. friend went on to say that her brother makes the most delicious turkey, and what he does is inject it continuously while cooking. Oh! self said. So you’d need a special instrument? And P.O. friend said yes.

Anyhoo, last night, after fab dinner at newly discovered RWC restaurant, Pho Dong on Broadway, self was reclining on couch when out popped the idea to show off her fabulous new Calphalon roasting pan to hubby. And, even though he was watching a very exciting college football game, hubby expressed interest in seeing the marvel. So self dragged the box over from the kitchen (must have weighed about 15 lbs.), and inside, nestled lovingly in a veritable jigsaw of cardboard padding, was the thing itself, which was huge, and about five inches deep; and then, the rack, on which self could already imagine a juicy prime rib roast, dripping with fat; and then two evil-looking sharp-tipped prongs (for lifting, self supposed); and finally a baster with a needle-like steel insert that self deduced must be a stainless steel injection turkey baster (!!@@##)

Isn’t self’s life so full of such wonderful conundrums? She’ll be talking to her P.O. friend, that friend will bring up turkey basting, she’ll open up the box for the roasting pan she dragged home from Bloomie’s, and therein self will find a super-duper, huge turkey injection baster.

In the meantime, hard-anodized non-stick Calphalon mother of all roasting pans is sitting in all its glory on kitchen counter because, alas, it will not fit in any of self’s tiny kitchen cabinets.

“Where shall I put this thing?” self wonders aloud.

Hubby advises sticking it in the oven, which suggestion self deems to be a good one. So, after removing all the racks from inside the oven, self is finally able to put giant roaster away.

Stay tuned, dear blog readers, stay tuned.

Some Things Self Knows (That She Didn’t Know Twelve Hours Ago)

(1) Self’s Gracie gets extremely exercised by the sound of children’s voices.

Next-door neighbor’s daughter is having a birthday party in their backyard, and Gracie has been barking non-stop for almost an hour.

(2) Self never knew, until five minutes ago that is, that the Grace Paley Prize in Short Fiction and the AWP Award Series in Short Fiction are one and the same thing.

Self would like to petition the organizers of these awards to please merge the two because self, who has to write a letter of recommendation for someone, is getting mighty confused and needs to check 100 times to see that she has actually written the correct award on the correct letter, all of which has the undesirable effect of keeping self from finishing that story that she knows, she just knows, will win some fabulous award (perhaps a Pushcart, or an O. Henry — after all, it really would be too tragic if self’s only acquaintance with these awards would be as an also-ran/finalist) — when she finally does get around to finishing it and sending it out, that is.

(3) There is someone named Voltaire Villanueva in the world. Yes, and he even teaches at self’s community college — imagine that, dear blog readers! And, furthermore, has the mailbox either just above or just below self’s. And is most likely a psychology professor — as makes perfect sense, with a name like that.

Today, self finally had the time to check her mailbox and it was simply stuffed with all kinds of books. And self grabbed the whole pile and threw them into her knapsack and nearly dislocated a shoulder. And when self pulled out the books, after she had arrived home, the first book was Psychology for Living, 9th Edition. And self thought the publishers had really gone crazy, trying to push a psychology book on an English professor. Until, that is, she read the name on the address label and saw the name “Voltaire Villanueva.”

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