I told Vin I want to spatchcock the turkey for Thanksgiving this year. Judging from the look of disgust on his face, I’m not sure he understands exactly what it is I wish to do with the turkey.
Vin: You want to WHAT the turkey? Are you crazy?
Me: I’m thinking you don’t understand, because I’m thinking you’re thinking I want to do something very wrong. And if you think that of me, well… you can just spatchcock the turkey yourself!
Vin: Okay, okay… what IS a spatchcock?
Me: It’s not a “what it is”, it’s a “how it is”, and it’s flat. Spatchcocking is flat.
Vin: Because the turkey couldn’t get it up?
Me: What? No! You’re disgusting! We have to eat this thing.
Vin: I’m not eating anything you spatchcock.
Me: You don’t EVEN know. And, actually, I was going to make YOU spatchcock the turkey because I don’t like handling raw poultry.
Vin: I’m not spatchcocking anything.
Me: Yes, you are. And you’ll have fun doing it, or I’ll feel sad.
Vin: Fine. How do I spatchcock the turkey?
Me: You get a big knife and cut out the spine, then you break the BREAST bone, then you put it facedown in front of you all spread-eagle and gaze at it longingly before you roast it and slurp it all up.
Vin: I’m not spatchcocking the turkey.
This was the look on his face…
When I asked him to do this…
