It wasn’t until 7pm that anyone noticed the unfolding crisis. As our hunger grew, my Mum came up with an unlikely and audacious plan
The first sign that something was amiss was the smell – or rather, the lack of it. The roasted turkey aroma that usually wafted throughout the house on Christmas Day was conspicuous by its absence. My mum had spent the morning meticulously plucking fresh herbs and seasoning our plump bird but, so far, no scent.
It was 2010 and the entire family, including aunts and cousins, had come to our house for dinner. After a morning gorging on chocolate and an afternoon snacking on picky bits (mainly crisps), appetites were peaking. The much-anticipated Christmas roast had been in the oven for about four hours and it was nearing 7pm. My mum, who had been busy keeping everybody happy by handing out snacks and managing the festive playlist, had taken only a scant look through the oven doors and assumed the meal was progressing nicely. As dinner time approached, she went to put in the roast potatoes and herby vegetables, expecting the turkey to be nearly golden, oozing its juices after sizzling away at 190C. Instead of a blast of hot air, she was greeted by a stone cold breeze. The turkey was pink and raw. Our oven was broken.
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