Charlie Eppes and the Deep Fried Turkey
Yes, I have been watching way too much Food TV. Especially Alton Brown, who is almost as much fun to watch as Bill Nye. Seeing the two of them together on a TV special is one of my Christmas wishes.
I wrote this story last year, when I was getting especially frustrated with my 2006 NaNoWriMo novel. It may not be coherent. Editing it for coherence may ruin whatever charm it may lay claim to. Do not expect it to be entirely in character as it was written for humor.
This is dedicated to elysium1996, for giving me the idea to write a Thanksgiving Day story, to AmyD, for putting up with my belly-aching, and to Statsgrandma, because she puts me in her stories and turns a lovely shade of pink when I dedicate things to her.
Even though this story is about America's Most Food Oriented Holiday, you probably should not eat or drink when reading it.
The author takes no responsibility for the state of your keyboard before, during or after reading this story. Thank you.
Beginning Actual Story
Charles Edward Eppes liked trying new things. Really, he did. In spite of the widespread belief that Charlie couldn't handle change.
Said belief was fueled by the nasty rumor that Charlie had slept in a crib until he had left for Harvard. A calumny that had been spread by a so-called "informed inside source" coughDoncough.
It was a blatant lie. As everybody knew, Charlie had attended Princeton.
So much for the informed inside source.
Anyway, the new thing that Charlie wanted to try on the Thanksgiving in question was deep fried turkey.
Charlie wanted to break with the traditional roast turkey because he liked fried chicken and he had heard that fried turkey was especially juicy. Also, it appealed to his scientific nature, because deep frying is more efficient, energy wise, than roasting.
The fact that the turkey would have to be deep fried outside the house and far away from the Eppes' guests including Alan's new girlfriend, Dr. Mildred Finch, (who was also Charlie's new boss), didn't enter the equation at all.
That was Charlie's story and he was going to stick to it.
"So where do we set it up?" Don asked, eying the turkey fryer with much the same misgiving as he would an explosive device.
Come to think of it, considering how many people injured themselves by trying to deep fry a turkey, maybe the explosive device would have been more welcome. At least Colby and David could handle an explosive device when they got there.
"On the lawn," Charlie decided. "If the oil boils over, it would damage wood and stain the concrete. The grass will grow backā¦" he paused. "Eventually."
Don rolled his eyes. "Why isn't that reassuring?" he asked.
"What's your problem?" Charlie asked. "You don't have to do lawn work around here."
"No," Don said. "But if the lawn gets ruined, then I have to listen to Dad complain about it."
"You can always eat at your own apartment," Charlie pointed out.
"Then I have to listen to Dad complain that I never come over," Don pointed out. "It's really much easier on everyone if you don't fry the lawn, Chuck."
"Ah, yeah." The mathematician did some mental calculations. "I know, let's take it all the way behind the koi pond. The grass in that area is always partially in the shade and usually looks half dead anyway."
Don sighed. However, he and Megan obediently carried the ancient and decrepit picnic table out to the desired location.
Don grumbled the whole way.
"Would you rather sit inside and entertain Mildred?" Charlie asked. He carried the infamous turkey fryer and set it up on what Don had to admit was sincerely dead looking grass.
"She can't be that bad, can she?" Megan Reeves asked.
"Trust me, oh partner of my brother and person of interest to my mentor," Charlie said pompously.
Professor Larry Fleinhardt was following the Eppes brothers with a closed cooler. At Charlie's comment, he choked back a laugh. "Charles, what a silly thing to say," he said.
"A choice between Mildred and second degree burns isn't an easy one to make," Charlie said to Megan. To Larry, he added "You're right, I've been hanging around you much too long."
"I do not say silly things," Larry protested. "Eccentric things, yes. Silly, no. And speaking of silly, I, personally, would rather endure Millie's company than to acquire any burns."
Larry set his burden down and considered. "Especially since hot oil burns are more likely to be in the third degree rather than the second."
"I'll drink to that," Amita said. She was carrying a milk crate filled various cooking utensils, eating utensils, a stack of plates and a plastic jug filled with peanut oil. She also had a coil of rope slung over her shoulder like a mountain climber.
She wasn't sure why she needed the rope, but Charlie had asked her to carry it.
She fished her lovely beverage out of her crate and took a sip. She wasn't sure what was in it, but Millie had assured her it was an essential aid in dealing with men of science.
"I admit that being burned isn't on my to-do list," Charlie said. "I just want to try a new and different culinary experience." He set up the deep fryer on a particularly ugly patch of crab grass that he should have weeded out months ago.
"Isn't that redundant?" Amita asked. "You can't have something new that is the same, can you?"
Charlie chose to ignore her comments.
"Maybe you should have considered a new pie recipe," Larry said.
Don shook his head. "You didn't see what happened the time Charlie tried to bake an apple pie," he said in dark and dire tones.
Charlie looked at him indignantly. "That was twenty years ago, Don," he protested. "I was twelve."
"You were getting straight A's in high school chemistry," Don said. "You should have been able to follow a simple pie recipe." To the others Don added. "It all worked out, though because Mom had wanted a new stove, anyway."
"You two should write a book about your childhood," Megan said. "It would be a best seller in both comedy and tragedy."
"Don't you have some reports to write?" Don asked witheringly.
Megan held her hands up in surrender. "I'll be good," she promised.
A look of skepticism crossed Don's face.
A look of disappointment crossed Larry's face.
"I wouldn't have set the stove on fire if you hadn't constantly nagged me to play catch with you," Charlie grumbled as he set up the deep fryer.
"You were a boy, Chuck," Don said. "You were supposed to be playing ball, not making like Suzy Homemaker."
"Explain to me why the only times you wanted to play with me was when I was busy with something else," Charlie complained.
Amita decided that this was the time to change the subject. "So, what needs to be done to a deep fried turkey?" she asked. "I take it that basting it is right out."
Larry nodded. "Correct," he said. "First, create a brine, which is a mixture of water, salt and brown sugar."
"Dark brown sugar," Charlie amended.
Larry shrugged. "Brown sugar to your preference," he said. "Then you soak the turkey in the brine for a minimum of eight hours."
Charlie gestured to the cooler. "The recipe said eight to sixteen hours. I put it in at ten PM last night, and didn't take it out until four PM."
"So you went for the maximum brine time," Larry said.
Charlie nodded.
"Then you let it dry, I hope," a new, female voice said. Dr. Mildred "Call Me Millie" Finch had arrived, being too curious to sit in the house while the majority of the party had adjourned to the great outdoors.
Don wondered if Charlie would explode at having Mildred Finch thwart his escape attempt.
"Yes, definitely," Larry said. "As oil and water do not mix. Hot oil and water are an especially unhappy combination."
"Even I knew that," Don said. "So, how long as the bird been drying?"
"I patted it down with a paper towel, as per the recipe," Charlie said. He was apparently too immersed in his calculations to resent, or maybe even notice, Mildred's arrival.
"That will not dry the turkey completely," Alan said. The patriarch of the Eppes clan came up behind Mildred and for a moment Don feared that his father would put his arms around the woman.
Don had nothing against Mildred personally. Heck, anybody who could get Charlie's goat on a daily, no hourly, basis like she did got brownie points as far as he was concerned.
However, he was not quite ready for Public Displays of Affection from his father towards a relatively strange woman.
Admittedly, all his relatives were strange, but that was beside the point.
Fortunately, Alan's hands were already occupied. He held his lovely beverage in one hand and a fire extinguisher in the other. Don could have kicked himself for not thinking of the fire extinguisher.
"No, patting down the turkey won't dry it completely," Charlie agreed. He looked at his father and Mildred with resignation. Don was relieved to note that he wouldn't have to break up a fight.
"The turkey has been draining since I took it out of the brine," Charlie said. "The recipe suggested that half an hour would be good, and this was two hours ago."
Mildred nodded. "Extra drying won't hurt," she opined.
"How do you know how much oil to use?" Megan asked.
"What kind of oil are you using?" Alan asked. He looked around. "Shouldn't you have dug this crab grass up months ago?"
Charlie shrugged. "Yes, pater familias of mine," he said. "I should have found time to deal with the crab grass much earlier in the year. However, the sudden influx of busy work has set my schedule back." He looked pointedly at Millie.
"Hey, you can always drop the consulting work," Millie said, looking pointedly back at Charlie.
"No, he can't," Don said. "I have dibs on him."
"I sign his paycheck," Millie said. "That gives me priority."
"I've known Charlie since my parents brought the stinky, pooping brat home from the hospital," Don countered. "That gives me priority."
"I don't understand why you're complaining," Alan said. "You never had to change his diapers."
"It's too late to get rid of the crab grass now, anyway," Charlie said in a desperate attempt to get the subject away from his pre-toilet trained days.
"Why?" Alan demanded.
"It has tenure," Charlie explained.
