Expectations are the Debbil!

I'm pretty guilty of having high expectations. For everything. Being a stay-at-home mama now, I get my excitement from the little things. I look forward to things for weeks days in advance, and I think about them often, hoping they will go just so.

Know what that's a good recipe for? Disappointment.

Take this weekend for example. My Mister Hubby reaped the benefits of being gone every morning this week when he shot a big fat turkey. He and "Uncle Dave" decided that if Dave would fillet it (do you fillet a turkey?), "we" (I figued this was code for "my wife") would cook it and have him over for dinner.

Saturday came and I was kind of looking forward to our little dinner party. I had visions of my kitchen being clean, frying up the golden pieces of bird, making a huge pan of fried potatoes and a warm batch of cornbread. I figued the boys would sit in here and racount the story of the kill while I fixed up a nice meal, started their plates, then called them in to finish up thier "fixins."

Cue the ol' "Womp womp waaaahhhhhhh" music here.

Rather, Dave showed up a little early. I was frantically finishing up dishes, and the bird wasn't even completely defrosted yet.

They assured me they "knew" what they were doing, and would cook it "their way."

And they didn't need ANYTHING but turkey.

So I sat on the couch and watched Toy Story 3 with Chloe.

When the living room became so smoky I could no longer tell if I had a cataract or if there was a sudden indoor fog, I decided to check things out.

"TRY THIS!" Hubby said, shoving a piece of meat in my face.

Rubbery comes to mind. Chewy. Needs gravy, or milk, or water....dry.

"Mm. Not bad," I said. "Little dry, though," I added, making my way to the stove.

There I saw the tarry goop that was once clean oil, and the smoke rising from the pan.

"You've got this a little hot," I said, trying not to take over, but kinda failing as I took the tongs from his hand and turned the burner down. "And it'll be less dry if you put a lid on it at first," I added, reaching for the lid. They stepped back. I finished the batch, though I'm not sure ANYONE would eat it if they saw the condition of the pan in which it was cooked. I've scraped day-old leftovers out of a pan that looked better than that oil.

They stood at the counter eating the pieces and talking boy language.

I went to McDonald's as soon as Dave left. And my hopes of a quaint little dinner party were left clamboring through the hot grease and turkey smoke in the house. I think they're still lingering between the dish towels and among the dirty socks, but I can't be sure.