Trash talk, Turkey

I think I have survived the feast of Becoming an Outdoors Woman encampment. I'm still not hungry. I hope I feel like eating by Thursday.

Twenty women, a dozen dutch ovens, a trash can, and two cooking fires later, we had a meal fit for a Queen.

Speaking of Queens, our fearless leader, Vicky, was the Director of Turkey Cooking. Hey, wait a minute, I think I recognize the stance of this group! Are you guys state workers?!?! All you need are orange vests!!!

Here's the steps to cooking your Thanksgiving turkey under a trash can.

1. Clear a spot of leaves and other combustible material (unless you're also in charge of dinner entertainment).

2. Drive a clean stake through the center of a tube cake pan, and surround the pan with aluminum foil. Beat down that bird, girlfriend! The stake has to be low enough that the trash can will go over it.

3. Put the turkey, butt end first, over the stake.

4. Rub spices onto the turkey. Do not become too fond of massaging the turkey, please. Rebecca, let go of the bird!!

5. Fill the cavities in the bird and and under its skin with cut up onions, peppers, celery, whatever ya got. Rebecca, you're touching the bird again. Step away from the bird.

6. Upend a clean trash can over the now-relaxed fowl.

7. Scoop hot charcoal briquets around the base and on top of the trash can. Keep adding fresh charcoal throughout the process. Don't lift the trash can until time is up.

While the bird meditated in its spa setting, the ladies went into high gear with the cast iron.

Dot made beer bread. This is too simple to believe.
Flour and sugar.

A bottle of beer. ALL of the bottle, boys.

Charcoal over and under the cast iron spider, and go visit with the girls.

Susan's whipping up some sweet potato casserole. This stuff is so good, I'd shove old people out of the way to get it.

Look out Susan, the woman with the camera is stealing the secrets of your recipe!! Smack her with the spoon!

On the fire were also ovens with cobbler, dressing, green bean casserole, cornbread pudding, coffee. On the table was cranberry relish, pecan pies, and pumpkin bread. Men, we don't need no stinkin' men!

Oh!  Dot's bread is done! Yummy and easy, my kind of cooking!

8. Back to the bird saga. Three hours (for a 25 pound bird) after you put your turkey in its trash can sauna, scoop away the charcoal.

8. ooohhh.. are you ready?  Drumroll, please.

9. Ta-da!   Don't worry, it's supposed to look like that.

10. Ha, ha. The cook staff look a little skeptical, but Vicky kept assuring us that brown is cooking, black is done.

And oh, it's done perfectly. It opened up, gushing juices and releasing a delicious smelling cloud that brought all the gals rushing round.

More than enough to go around, the turkey was amazingly moist. I may never use my stove again.

Fun, food, feasting, and fellowship. We were thankful for every bite and every minute.

Tomorrow I'll tell you all about the after-dinner activities. Hint- not a one includes napping on trhe couch or football.

Happy Trails, and may you never talk trash about your adventures!

Another fix for my camping addiction

I just had another fix and a serious intensification of my addiction, all in the same weekend, by the same activity. I got my camping fix, but I am having serious d.t.'s fighting off the travel bug.


I spent the weekend with the gals of Okahoma B.O.W. (Becoming an Outdoors Woman), at the annual Thanksgiving campout. Do I really need to tell you that it included food, some food, some more food, and was topped off with some food?


In just a few hours, the group campsite sprouted abodes like a rainbow of mushrooms.

We swarmed upon Kaw Lake like a hive of bees, swinging dutch ovens, wielding trash cans, sporting leather gloves, and towing kayaks. I don't want to give away too many of the fun details yet...



There was an ugly hat contest. This one won prettiest ugly hat.

There was fire. A LOT of fire. It was one big pyromaniac party. Our queen bee, Vicki, shared her expertise on building a one-match fire. First, clear all the dead leaves. I thought it would have been a lot more interesting if we skipped this step, but I was outranked in this decision.



Then you make an "A". So far so good, I can remember this.

Pile up super tiny tinder, with room to get the match underneath them.

Success, one match fire!!! 

While Vicki and Amelia were playing with petite fire, these gals were going for the mondo flame-maker. Hey lady, do you have a license to drive that saw?

There was a lot of tomfoolery, a lot of cooking, a lot of eating, some more cooking and eating, and some picture taking (duh).

As always, I learned something new from these ladies. Decorate your leather gloves with neon orange, glow-in-the-dark paint so you can find them in the dark after you leave them lying around somewhere.

Grab a free hammock whenever you can.  Don't worry, Elaine's not in pain, she always looks like that. I think it comes from teaching first graders.

I'll share the big feast event tomorrow, after I finish digesting.

A Crappie Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving around our table is a time of tradition, mirth, and myth. With the mashed sweet potatoes we talk about Grandma’s food preferences, with the dessert comes the tall tales of front yard football. But along with the green bean casserole, the favorites are those stories based in truth; reality so weird you can’t make it up.
Such is the case with the “Crappie Thanksgiving”, my own contribution to the family lore.


Four years ago, we had one of those storybook Turkey Days. Every relative showed up for dinner, every relative got along. The weather was amazing, and after the feast, Philoboy and I decided to slip away to a local bass hot spot.


The largemouth bass and crappie were just begging to get in the boat with us. There was no way we were going back to the din of the clan when we were having one of the best fishing days of our lives. I was working in the largest crappie of my fishing career when Philo gave a heave with his rod, trying to reach the edge of the far bank. The lure never hit and his line went dead.


There was no pain, but I knew, oh I knew where his lure had landed. “Do not pull your line,” I said as emphatically as I could muster. “Why, where’d it go?” he puzzled.


“It’s in my head.” He swiveled his seat toward me and turned a sickly white with green tinges round the edges. He started to get up, “Sit down!” I snapped, “I have to land this fish!”


“But, but, but…” The blood was beginning to trickle down into my eye. “If you want to help,” I said, “cut your line without tugging on it.” With shaking hands he did just that as I slid my gorgeous fish sadly into the basket. The stinging tightness in my scalp pretty much assured me that I was not going to let the green, quivery guy at the other end of the boat try to take out the hook. Oh, and did I mention it was a treble hook?


We docked the boat and visited the local E.R., where a little topical anesthesia, a pair of side cutters, two hooks, and one doctor shaking with laughter later I was all better. Prescription for antibiotic in hand, I insisted over the repeated apologies of my beloved that we return to the sweet spot.


Unfortunately, the run was over for the day. We released our bounty back into the water and headed home. Philoboy sat morosely behind the steering wheel. “Don’t feel bad, Hon, I’m fine.”


“But that was my best Comet,” he said dejectedly. Ahhh, true love. Thank goodness it was catch and release.

He caught a keeper! I remind him of that from time to time. Yes, that tinge of red is the remaining blood. I'm keeping this picture forever in case I need to play the guilt card...