Home Cooking. - Haley Morgan Smith
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Home Cooking.

23 Nov Home Cooking.

Why, hello people I love.


It’s been nearly a year since I’ve written a blog as I took a little bit of a sabbatical. So much happened in 2015 that I really didn’t think another year could be that crazy. Turns out, God was just using 2015 to prepare me for 2016. I mean that in the best way possible. I have much awesomeness to catch you up on and I plan to do that soon.

Before that though, I have to mentally prepare for the holidays. I feel like writing this blog may help me work through that. I am at that point in my life where I have responsibilities during holidays. Like, when you’re a kid, you just show up, eat, and go play with your cousins. If your cousins were like mine, they take you to your grandmothers room (my grandparents had separate rooms and beds) and stomp the crap out of you with their new moon boots.

Then all of the sudden the older generation has either passed on or is really frail, the dumb moon boot stomping cousin is married off with kids, and things are just different. Depressing, right? Well then add on top of that that your apparent adult behind has graduated from the kiddie table to one of the women that has to bring a legitimate Thanksgiving dish. And it has to actually be good. Think puberty or college is hard? That crap ain’t nothing compared to taking on a significant dish for Thanksgiving in a large, southern family made of Paula Deans (minus the offensive words…don’t write me).

A few years ago, I got a little too prideful, threw myself into adulting, and volunteered to take care of the turkey. I had just gotten married and I felt all Betty Crocker-ish and stuff and wasn’t thinking clearly. It was one of the stupidest things I have ever done. A few years before that, I tried to roast a chicken for The Man. When I got to the part where I had to reach into the cavity, I straight up passed out. I kid you not. I didn’t know they left the gizzards and such in there, so I thought I pulled out his little heart and hit the freaking floor. I don’t really know why taking on a larger, more important bird seemed to make sense to me.


The Man helped me with the turkey. I watched hours of Pioneer Woman and read all of her blog posts. We made a “brine”, whatever the crap that is. I told my mom and all the other women in our family I was making a “brine” and they all gave me the “bless her heart” look as they slap some Dale’s on it, fry it, and call it a day. “Brining” is fancy stuff.

I made The Man do the cavity stuff, had my inhaler on the counter, and he helped me put that 15lb bird in a bag. I spilt a little “brine” on me and smelled like oranges and garlic for 3 weeks. Next day, I put the bird in the oven, panicked for several hours, and then took the bird over to Thanksgiving. To my amazement, Pioneer Woman did not fail me and it actually went very well. But I never really enjoyed it myself because I was too dang stressed out. And I didn’t get much of my Aunt’s famous greasy beans, cause my new promotion meant I had to wait until all the children, old folks, and men got their plate. I don’t really know how my moms, aunts, and grandmothers do it. They’re all cute presenting their dishes in their sequence sweaters and no hair out of place. I looked like Buckwheat walked through a car wash.




So this year, I’m changing gears. I want to look cute. I want The Man to look at me, take pride in my dish, and say “That’s my beautiful wife over there that cooked that!” rather than, “That’s my wife over there in the fetal position. Pray for her. Pray for me.” So this year, this is what I’m contributing to Thanksgiving.


Done. I literally slayed Thanksgiving in less than 5 minutes. Crap on that “brining” process and bird cavities. I’m gonna take that bird out of that craft paper bag, plop it on on my Pioneer Woman platter like a boss, and present it like Beyonce with clothes on tomorrow.

Then I’ll sit with my family sans my inhaler and enjoy them. I hope you enjoy yours, too.


Happy Thanksgiving,








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