One of many, memorable firsts with my boyfriend, Randall, began with my promotion to Special Publications Director here at Gulf Coast Newspapers. As the new editor of our monthly magazine, Beachin', I wanted to add a few of my own touches. Think...Beach...Southern Hospitality...Tourists...Fun...=Recipes!

Of course, this publication needed a recipe page, but one unlike, and far superior to those in other magazines. This one page would stand out from the magazine's other 39 pages because it would offer a yummy, beachy cocktail recipe along with a food recipe. Thus, the Sip & Savor page was born and premiered in my first issue-September Entertainment.

Before I knew it, planning for the third issue was underway and I wanted to put a delicious, Southern spin on Thanksgiving: fried turkey! I decided I'd offer a fabulous marinade for fried turkey and set to work checking the internet for a basis and searching my taste-bud memories for original additions.

After I typed the recipe and sent it to the graphic designer, an after-thought came floating into my brain like the slow waft of forgotten goodies from the oven: a gentle, nose tickle followed by the ‘oh-no moment' panic. I'd need a photo...of a fried turkey!

I had taken all original photos of the cocktails and entrees, so far, and was not about to cheat my creativity, nor my hopefully-adoring readership by taking the easy way out, i.e. turning to the Internet for a quick picture of someone else's masterpiece.

"Baby, can we fry a turkey for my Beachin' magazine?"

"Um...sure, when do you need it?"

"This weekend."

Never mind that neither of us had ever fried a turkey. Never mind that we had no Cajun cooker, no plethora of oil...and no turkey.

As I laughed to my mother about my sudden circumstances (as I often do), she offered a beam of light into my ignorant bliss. She had a Cajun cooker and it was in the garage under my apartment. How convenient?! She had bought it for my father and mentioned, with a side-smirk, that he had never even taken it out of the box....She even had a huge jug of peanut oil for it.

Ah, a sigh of relief. Saturday mid-morning rolled around and we moseyed to the store to buy our bird. On sale, for 69 cents a pound, mind you.

For those of you who've prepared a whole turkey before, I'm sure you already see the obvious problem. The turkey was frozen! Not fresh like other meats you purchase at the grocer, bring home, portion out into Ziplocs and freeze for later use. No, the whole, 14-pound turkey was frozen solid. And quite heavy, too.

No use crying over frozen poultry, to the cashier, truck bed, and on to the house we went. Randall's truck bed cover provided, what we thought would be a warm and nurturing environment for turkey thawing. Wrong. After a couple hours, I slid the turkey into a sink full of hot water-making sure to remove the gizzards bag and put hot water in the cavity as well. Time, was, after all, of the essence...he wouldn't mind.

Finally, a mostly thawed and rather limber bird emerged. Randall measured the pot with water and heated the oil outside, standing guard by the thermometer as I injected my marinade recipe.

Upon a relieved trip down the stairs, I found him sitting on his tailgate in front of the cooker-watching horror videos on his phone about fires, injury, and all manner of turkey-frying experiences. At this time, I learned that the bird must be completely dried before he's lowered into the oil.

The bird I just injected with two cups of lemon juice et al. must be completely dried before his skinny dip! The smile on my lips began to smolder as I turned to go back inside.

He called out to me, "Hey Blue Eyes, don't get upset-this is supposed to be fun."

Ha! He was right. I took an ice bucket to my inflamed, inner monologue and softened my lips back to a curve.

I took a fresh dishtowel to the every inner- and outer-square inch of that turkey, watching as my masterpiece juices disappeared down the drain.

"It's completely dry now," I proudly announced, aluminum pan in hand.

"And I think the oil's too hot now," he replied with a sheepish look. "Oh well, I'm sure that cold bird will cool it down."

He slowly lowered the still-juice-dripping curse into the hot, dangerous, popping oil as he explained the current off-position of the propane tank-in case the oil overflowed, no flame=no fire.

I couldn't help thinking how much I love this man as he spent a grueling five minutes lowering the 14-pounder, visions of pants-leg-wildfire dancing in his eyes...all for one, tiny photo in one of my magazines (soon to be deemed, ‘my babies').

Oily driveway, check. Turkey sunk, check. Overwhelmed couple on tailgate, check.

Wine? We both nodded.

I returned, bottle, corkscrew and glasses in hand, for a blissful hour and 10 minutes overlooking the fryer.

Night had long since crept up around us. We savored the warm wine, threw our heads back to peruse the starlit display.

The still night and laughter broke with the cell phone's alarm. I was instructed to stay back as he hooked the "fish" and reeled him out.

Even through the darkness, it was immediately obvious that the turkey was...well, black. No golden hue, no plump goodness with brown crust. He looked pretty scrawny. Not the same, fat bird we'd known.

The meat and skin drew up so that the leg bones protruded and the smutty exterior was less than appetizing.

We looked at each other, half disappointed, half baffled as our friend was laid to rest on the pan.

As Randall began cutting, we both giggled in disbelief. The drumstick...was just that...a stick. Bone. Meat entirely disintegrated.

"Wait, I think there's some breast meat left!" rang out joyously from behind his knife.

I stood watching him carve, dreams of a whole, golden-crusted, parsley-garnished turkey diminished. The rumble in my tummy paused, hanging on his discovery.

"Yep, and it's moist, too."

We sat, slightly burning our lips with samples, smiling wide and pondering our miscalculations of a 54-minute-deep-fried turkey.

He endlessly complimented my lemony-spice marinade as we devoured the cut pieces. That same marinade that I thought had been lost to the drain.

"Thank you, baby," head cocked, eyes wandering up into his.

He knew what it meant. He'd been dating a poet for four months.

Fried turkey breast atop a bed of parsley: perfect match for the Cranberry Cosmo. Happy Thanksgiving!

Spiced Grateful Bird

8 to 14 pound whole turkey

About 10 gallons peanut oil

Cajun fryer with basket

Candy thermometer

Meat thermometer

Marinade ingredients listed below

Measure for oil by placing the turkey in the basket and the basket in the fryer. Pour in water until it reaches two inches above the bird. Measure water with a ruler, remove bird and dry fryer thoroughly. Place the measured amount of oil in the fryer and heat to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. using the candy thermometer.

Remove tukey's insides and inject the bird evenly with the following marinade:

½ c. lemon juice

½ c. liquid crab boil

½ c. olive oil

½ c. butter

2 tbs. garlic salt

2 tbs. onion powder

Dry the turkey thoroughly. Use the basket to slowly lower the turkey into the fryer. Allow approximately three minutes per pound to cook. Use meat thermometer to determine if breast has reached 170 and thigh has reached 180 degrees Fahrenheit.

Remove and cool. Place on a serving plate. Garnish with fresh parsley and lemon slices.