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Posting this story has become an annual Thanksgiving tradition. It happened several years ago. There are no photos because some things should never be seen.

It’s 4 a.m. and I should be sleeping soundly, getting my energy back after two days of cooking in preparation for the big Thanksgiving feast tomorrow (today). Instead, I’m sitting at my computer, counting down 10 minutes, because that’s how long it takes Lysol to kill food-borne pathogens.

All I had to do was empty the brine bucket at 3 a.m., six hours after immersing what will surely be a glorious turkey when it’s cooked to 170 degrees (just to be sure) and presented lovingly to my family. A quick bleaching of the sink, return the turkey to the fridge, and Bob’s your uncle; off to sleepy-land again.

I knew the brine bucket was full. Like, really full. So I was careful, because, as we all know, cross-contamination is an ugly thing. The plastic bag I put the bucket on in the fridge, however, had other ideas.

The brine sloshed out of the bucket onto the plastic bag, the plastic bag hit the floor, and a poultry-infused mess splattered everywhere. It left a trail from the refrigerator to the sink, soaking the kitchen floor. It drained down my shirt, into my underwear, down my legs, and all over the counter. A literal trail of horror and unhappiness.

There may be some among you who would do a quick mop-up and think no more of it. That’s not me. Every single drop of cross-contamination welled up around me, like oceans of food-borne illness waiting to happen.

The bleach bottle was in the laundry room, which meant tracking brine through two rooms, cross-contaminating one-quarter of the downstairs portion of my home. But there was no escaping it. I had to do it, and I had to keep track of every single thing my hands, my feet, and my shirt touched during the round-trip journey.

The next hour was spent bleaching the floor, the sink, the counters, my feet, the faucet, the refrigerator, and the laundry tub.

My clothes, of course, had to come off, and I had to wash myself with hot, soapy water to avoid further cross-contamination. All I had was laundry soap, but it would have to do. Mercifully, the tablecloth I was going to launder was still on the washing machine, so I wrapped up in it, just in case anyone came out of their bedroom to see what the hell I was doing. The only thing that would make this night worse was to have my loved ones watch me run through the house naked.

I didn’t want to wake Simon by opening my underwear drawer once I reached the bedroom, so I rooted through the laundry basket, but only found a pair of his old tighty whities. The ones he wears when he’s doing sweaty yard work. They would have to do. I grabbed a clean shirt, put it on, and went back to sanitizing.

Bleach is good, but Lysol is better. I should own stock in Lysol. Just the smell of it makes me relax, and since the required 5 minutes it takes bleach to kill salmonella had passed and the floor was almost dry, it was time to put my best friend to work.

Methodically, like a woman who knows what she’s doing (the kind of woman who wouldn’t have filled that damned brine bucket up to the top in the first place), I sprayed my microscopic enemies and took pleasure in hearing the last of them die.

So, that’s how I came to be sitting at my computer wearing my husband’s underwear, with Lysol all over my feet. It should only take one or two episodes of Are You Being Served to get me back to sleep again, but there are some things you know you’re going to live again and again in your nightmares for several years to come.

I CAN chuckle appreciatively at the fact that the clean shirt I am wearing reads, Nevertheless, She Persisted, but you can be damned sure I’m getting a bigger turkey-brine bucket on Friday.

Happy Thanksgiving. I wish each and every one of you a blessed day and a safe, healthy meal.

Kind regards,
Susan