I May Never Eat Again

I do believe I have found the anti Cherpumple. It’s name is Twinkling Turkey and it sounds, for lack of a better descriptor, like complete shite wrapped in a blarfcake glazed in who’s dumbfuck idea was that sauce.

So…who’s dumbfuck idea was it? Hostess’s, as it turns out. In 2006 the company put out a Twinkies cookbook, which I’m sure can’t help but be mostly horrifying. I mean really, cutting up Twinkies, using the cake part as stuffing and then the filling as a glaze? The mere thought of that makes me want to throw up things I haven’t eaten yet.

“Dear God, what is that smell?” my husband remarked as the odor wafted from the kitchen.

“What does it smell like?” I asked.

He wrinkled his nose. “Cake. Bad cake. And meat.”

Indeed—the house smelled exactly how you would imagine a house with Twinkie-stuffed poultry in the oven would smell: like a turkey being roasted in a cupcake-scented Yankee Candle.

When the turkey was almost done, I mixed the reserved Twinkie crème with a quarter cup of honey, and used it to glaze the hot bird before popping it back in the oven for another 12 minutes. Suddenly, the smell coming out of the oven changed.

“Motor oil!” yelped my husband. “Will you open a window?”

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