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What Happened to Miss Independent?

One thing I write very little about on this here blog is not the fact that I’m a spouse – but that I’m a military spouse.

I hint at it on occasion, like how I need to be respectful of Justin’s superiors at holiday parties and how sometimes our house shakes with explosions and it makes it hard to concentrate on anything but… you know… explosions and how it’s generally frowned upon for spouses to get speeding tickets for going 20 miles over the limit.

On base.

While driving a government vehicle.

What?  I didn’t write about that last one?

Huh.

I guess maybe I haven’t gone into details about these things because I feel like there are about a billion and a half blogs out there written by military spouses for military spouses, and I should probably leave the advice-giving to the actual good, non-domestiphobic military spouses who’ve managed to not only accept, but embrace this lifestyle — the ones who visit the Commissary (that’s the on-base grocery store for you non-military peeps) on a weekly basis; the ones who head to the Bx or Px (Base Exchange or Post Exchange) for their various sundries first, before making a stop at Target or Wal-Mart; the ones who are actively involved with the FRG (Family Readiness Group) and attend the spouse get-togethers and know their commander’s name and mumble acronyms in their sleep.

Okay, I lied.

That’s not really why I don’t write about it.

I think I don’t write about it because there’s a chance — and this is only like a 98.9% chance — that I resent it.

A little.

A lot.

You see, everywhere I go, I’m labeled a dependent.  Even back when I had an actual job and made money and paid taxes.  Even when Justin had to leave for 3 months and I had no way to reach him and the house, the cars, the bills, the dogs – everything was my responsibility and mine alone.  Even now, when I can still successfully complete menial tasks without assistance and speak in complete sentences and buy my own vino and wipe my own ass.

Still.  Just.  A dependent.

And I’ll tell you this:  That awful word — that dependent word — brings my ailment of Domestiphobia to unprecedented levels.

There are people — military spouses and active duty members specifically — who would, and have, cut me down for saying things like this.

But it doesn’t change how I feel.

Sometimes I get confused and I think it’s Justin I resent.  But then I realize that’s not true.  Not even a little bit.  He was dedicated to the military long before we met.  I love him, and it’s a part of him, but that doesn’t mean I have to love every aspect of the military.

I don’t have to love the fact that I have no say in where we live.

I don’t have to love the fact that it would have been increasingly difficult to maintain my career path anyway, had I not succumbed to my quarter life crisis, quit my job, and moved to Costa Rica.

I don’t have to love the fact that at any moment my husband could come home and tell me he has to leave and I won’t see him for days, weeks, or months.

And I have it easy compared to many military spouses.

When I’m honest with myself, it’s clear I haven’t done a stellar job of embracing this aspect of my life.  I’ve let the resentment — not for Justin but for his career, for his passion — malignantly grow for way too long, and lately it’s become my crutch — my excuse — for everything I don’t like about myself.

For everything I’m not doing.

And that’s pretty damn ridiculous.

It’s time to stop fighting it and really own what all of this means, which isn’t just the bad stuff — the deployments and the uncertainty and the career upsets, but also the good stuff — the uniqueness and the travel and the opportunities his job affords me if I would just go with it.

So.  From now on, I will try to be more cognizant of the happenings on the installation.  I will try to shop more frequently (or at least more than never) at the Commissary and Bx.  I will try to get to know the other spouses instead of being afraid that they’ll judge me for being weird and outspoken and childless and stubbornly… fiercely… independent.

I will stop trying so damn hard to be a normal citizen because nothing about this lifestyle is normal.

Unless, of course, you’re in it.

UPDATE:  Just as I hit “Publish,” a helicopter flew directly over my house.  Low.  Like, scary low.  Like, they-probably-could-tell-whether-or-not-I-was-wearing-a-bra low.

Welcome to my world.

Kitsch for my Kitch(en)

Have you ever felt like you have a million things to write about but no way to write them?

I have all of these things to tell you, but I feel like I lost my voice.  The words aren’t there.

Well, I have some words, but they aren’t witty or thoughtful or seductive in any way.

What?  They aren’t normally?

Well, crap.

Let me just tell you about the lovely little pottery festival I attended this weekend, otherwise known as “pay $10 to get sloshed on wine samples then $5 to walk around trying not to break any handcrafted pottery and then head back to the wine tent when you realize you never really wanted any pottery to begin with – you just wanted to drink the wine and listen to the music, which, you realize, is even more fun when you’re not the one serving the drinks.”

Now that I think about it, that pretty much sums it up.  So thanks, Danielle, for the awesome time!

I didn’t buy any pottery, but I did get some fantastic local honey, some seasoning stuff, a bottle of chardonnay, and this:

It combines my desire for a globe and my need for a place to store keepsake wine corks in one, fun-filled piece of kitsch.

Yes, we all know how I feel about buying crap just to have it – I normally stick to art and photographs since not only do they look nice, but they evoke memories and emotions, but c’mon people – it’s a globe and a cork holder.

It’s like it was made for me.

Sorry for the blur.  Apparently I can’t take photos and drink orange juice at the same time.

Who knew?

A Moment Long Awaited

Dear Big Brother,

Do you remember the time when I was maybe 6-years-old and you asked if I wanted to play hide-and-seek?  My panic-stricken little mind wildly inventoried the best possible hiding spots while you slowly counted to 100, the anticipatory inflection at the end of each number causing my excited-yet-scared heartbeat to increase to an unprecedented pace.

Scrambling to the cobweb-infested basement, I mustered all of my bravery to worm myself into a zippered laundry bag and what was ultimately the best hiding spot in the history of ever, where, upon your imminent failure to find me and my subsequent failure to work the zipper back down, archaeologists would discover my body in 200 years and conclude that I was the young victim of a heinous crime, not recognizing that they’d just discovered the remains of the hide-and-seek champion of the world.

“Ninety-eight…ninety-nine… ONE HUNDRED!”  I heard you yell from the top of the stairs.

“Are you ready?” you called, and I could tell by your voice that you were nervous that you’d lose this battle of wits to your dear baby sister who surely had the superior mental capacity combined with an advantageous small body frame to best you at the very game you taught her.

“Yes!” I called, my voice muffled by the fabric.

“Are you sure?” you asked.  Ahh.  You wanted to play fair – to ensure I’d found the best possible place so that, if you had to lose, you could lose like a gentleman, knowing the victor had earned her spot in the Hall of Hide-and-Seek Champions.

“Yes!” I assured you, giggling at the thought of you searching for hours, possibly calling Mom for help once the panic set in and you thought you’d lost me for good.

“Are you really sure?” your voice yelled even louder.

“Yesss!” I yelled.  Are you seriously this deaf, or is my hiding place just so awesome that it’s difficult to hear me?

“Are you really really sure?”

“YES!” I screamed, my frustration getting the better of my lady-like charm.

“BOO!” you yelled as the zipper flew open and I screamed in surprise.  And then you laughed.  You laughed in my face after you CHEATED while playing hide-and-seek with a 6-year-old girl.

For shame.

In the 20+ years since, it seems like we’ve made amends.  It appears as though we’ve gotten past your silly teenage antics and can treat each other like adults.

But I think you should know… I’ve just been biding my time.

Waiting for the day I’d taste the sweet nectar of revenge on my patient little tongue.

And today, dear brother, is that day.

The day that I can finally, with all the zest and spirit of a 6-year-old girl shouting, “I’m definitely ready!” across the vast and very public arena of the internet, say to you:

25

HAPPY 40TH BIRTHDAY!!!!!

25

I can’t believe how OLD you are.

Oh, and you know I love you immensely.

What? There was a Wedding?

This morning I was groggy.

My eyes were full of crusties, my hair resembled a bird’s nest, and my mouth tasted like socks — the stinky, cotton, gym kind — not the silky, expensive, suit kind.

Attractive, no?

It wasn’t until I managed to fumble my way to the kitchen, fix a pot of coffee, and pour the first, steamy sips down my parched throat that I actually managed to have a coherent thought.

And this is where I’ll admit — though definitely not for the first time — that I’m a bit of a freak.

My first thought of this April 29th morning was, I wonder what the weather is supposed to be like today.

GASP!

I realize this makes me somewhat of an anomaly among 99.9% of the U.S. female population.  You see, not only was my first thought not, I can’t wait to turn on the t.v. so I can finally see Kate’s dress, or, Now that William’s no longer on the market, I’m going to have to cancel my plans of creating a “chance” meeting where we’ll fall madly in love and he’ll dump that British commoner for a real American princess and I’ll finally have my fairy tale just like Cinderella and OMG WHY, William?!  WHY?

Not even close.

In fact, I actually forgot the whole thing was supposed to happen last night.  I arrived home from work rather late, and didn’t get home until around the time when true fans of the royals were throwing back shots of espresso and sticking toothpicks under their eyelids.  I didn’t think to turn the television on then, either.  Instead, I caught up on some blog reading, wrote some ideas in my notebook, washed my face, crawled under the covers, fell into a coma, and apparently sucked on my feet all night.

I know.  How un-American of me to forget about a British royal wedding!

I really don’t even feel like a girl right now.

There must be something wrong with me.

It wasn’t until I turned on the television to catch the morning weather report and was instead accosted by replay after replay after replay of that dry, tight-lipped kiss (though I imagine they must have been pretty nervous with only like a billion people watching) on the balcony of Buckingham Palace (yes, I even had to Google where the kiss took place) when I realized I missed it.

Huh.

For what it’s worth, yes, I do agree with the media that Kate’s dress was very pretty.  Yes, it definitely was a grand event.  Yes, I do hope they live happily ever after.

Now, can we get back to the actual news?

Well apparently the newlyweds haven’t revealed where they’re honeymooning yet.

So, no.  No we can’t.

On a less sardonic note, I have a busy weekend and week(s) ahead.  Another late night serving alcohol tonight, a day drinking wine tomorrow at a pottery festival in Sanford (I know, so delightfully “towny,” right?), a Saturday night free Everclear concert at the Dogwood Festival in Fayetteville (Jo Dee Messina is performing tonight for all you country fans), work again on Sunday, girlie party event on Monday, painting the living room and trim during the week, hopefully working on some more office projects, and overall getting ready for Justin’s upcoming college graduation and a visit from a dear friend (and fellow blogger), which I will tell you about soon.  Oh, and I’m also planning a baby shower and a trip to Spain.

I’m kind of exhausted just thinking about it.

But I have to admit that it’s nice to feel busy.

I should have a lot to post about in the coming weeks, so stay tuned!

The Storm’s Movin’ In

Okay, so I’m trying really hard to not be that girl.

You know, that girl who freaks out when bad weather presents and I’m home alone with a couple of mutts and there’s no basement and I live behind a trailer park.

I’ve never been that girl before.  I mean, I’m a military spouse.  We’re built Ford tough.  And we’re used to being alone.  But those storms from a couple of weeks ago and then the ones that blew through Alabama last night and are currently swirling in the skies overhead kind of made me realize how much we’re all just sitting here all vulnerable and exposed like those little moles that pop out of the holes in that game at the fair and we’re just hoping we don’t get whacked on the head with a rubber mallet.

Or a tornado.

The tall, skinny pine trees in my back yard look like giant blades of grass blowing around in the wind.

There’s no rain, and that somehow makes it a little scarier.

We’ve been told the storms have weakened significantly since their run through Alabama, and we shouldn’t expect to see anything that we saw before.

But the thing is, before is still now.

I took these photos from a moving vehicle a couple of days ago:

Sanford Lowes

Yep, that’s our Lowe’s Home Improvement store.

Lowe’s again.

Huge trees just snapped.

This used to be a nice little neighborhood.

Wow.

Nature is powerful and awesome.

And sometimes it wants to make sure we remember that.

The rain is here.

Something just hit my window.

I think I’ll go hide in the closet now.

Why don’t we have basements here??

I’m Pretty Sure I Was a Covert CIA Operative in Another Life

My first job with an actual paycheck was quite literally flipping burgers at an A&W Root Beer restaurant attached to a gas station when I was 15 years old.  I came home from my first 8-hour Saturday shift, forearm speckled pink and red from hot grill grease, the clanking sound the frozen burger patties made when I threw them down on the sizzling surface still ringing in my ears, my belly full of fries and my head full of pride because I’d gotten so good at something I’d known nothing about just 8 hours earlier.

It didn’t take me long, however, to learn that once the pride wears off, boredom sets in, and it’s time to move on to something new.  I’d mastered burger assembly, fryer operation, and simultaneously taking orders through the drive through headset while making a root beer float with one hand and counting change with the other.

I’d learned all I cared to know about the fast food industry, and the white-collared jobs of teenage corporate America beckoned with their shiny, manufactured name tags and morning staff meetings and profit charts.

Aside from the employee discount, my favorite part of working at Best Buy were the secret shopping trips I was assigned to take with some fellow employees to report on prices at a competing local company.  I’m pretty sure I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone about that, but hey – this was 12 years ago – there  has to be a statute of limitations or something.  But if no one hears from me for a couple of days after I post this, you might want to contact the authorities.  Unless, of course, they’re in on it.

Anyway.

We’d forgo the pressed blue polos and khaki pants and don our “street clothes,” packing our tiny pens and notebooks and product “shopping” lists so we could record the numbers all stealth-like because I’m sure I looked like your average 16-year-old surround-sound shopper comparing prices and writing down SKU numbers.  We totally blended in.  Except for when we didn’t, and then store management promptly kicked us out.

Then we’d play some video games and eat at Burger King and head back to our store to regale our envious coworkers with our harrowing tale.

I was reminded of this blast from my teenage past yesterday when Don, an employee at the Fresh Market in Southern Pines, caught me taking photos inside the store with my camera phone.

The difference is that this much more technologically savvy time around, my intentions were pure.  I mean, if you were used to only shopping at… say… the Dollar Store and suddenly someone introduced you to the world of Wal-Mart, you’d want to commemorate the occasion, wouldn’t you? And since I recently told you about my frustrations with my nearby Food Lion grocery store, I knew I had to share the Fresh Market experience.

Hence the blurry camera phone pictures.

I mean… I couldn’t very well whip out my DSLR and tell the deli employees to smile.

I had to be sneaky, people.  Corporate espionage is serious business.

Plus, it was just more fun to do it this way.

Justin was off work yesterday, so we decided to head to the upscale Southern Pines area to hit up their Lowe’s (since ours was destroyed by a tornado) and grab a nice lunch.  We also thought we’d stop by this place called Fresh Market, about which our neighbor raves.

All I can say is, how have I lived a mere 45 minutes away from this gem for 4 years and never gone??

We were greeted by a diverse group of freakishly friendly employees.  Seriously.  If I’m not mistaken’, I’d say that they all actually liked their jobs.

The produce was amazing.  It all really did look fresh.  The variety was incredible.  I mean, I don’t actually have a need for baby summer squash, but I might have to find one now.

Because they have it.

Need a potato?  How about a yam?  What color would you like?  Because here they’re not just potatoes, people.  You have options.

Want to grind your own fresh coffee beans?  Be their guest.

And the meat?  Oh, god – the meat.  Remember when I went to Food Lion with the intention of buying brisket and all they had was this lousy tongue? I mean, it was value priced because it was about to expire. And no one likes expired tongue.

Well, the fresh meat selection at Fresh Market did not disappoint.  Gorgeously marbled steaks like the veins in Calacatta tiles, chicken with lovely, yellow fat, and a seafood selection that made me think we’d traveled east – not west – to get to the store.

And, while I didn’t see any tongues on display, I’m fairly certain that, had I asked, the friendly folk behind the counter would’ve gone to the back and produced a nice, gleaming, not-about-to-expire beef tongue just for me.

Unfortunately, Don caught me before I could snap blurry photos of the freshly baked bread, bulk candy and nuts, and superb deli area.  You see, he’d found my Achilles heel.  The wine.  And the quality of my covert ops quickly deteriorated as I was faced with an actual selection.

Don knew my weakness.  And instead of kicking me out of the store, he exploited it to his fullest extent, taking me on a tour through the bottles and valleys and vineyards, explaining the intricacies of the various types and tastes and prices, and imparting on me some actual knowledge that I’ve somehow managed to avoid during my past several years of avid wine consumption.

I’m not going to lie – a little part of me wanted to have Don’s babies.

I’m now fairly convinced that this is the only place around here where I’ll be buying wine from now on.

Except, of course, for emergency situations.

And any other time I want to drink wine without driving all the way to Southern Pines.

And while the prices for some things were definitely higher at Fresh Market, I’m willing to pay a bit more for quality, service, and – you guessed it – the ambiance of a place that smells like freshly brewed coffee and all natural peanut butter over baby vomit and stale cheese.

I’m basically a marketing director’s wet dream.

And tonight, while I sip a new kind of Don-recommended Cabernet from the Columbia Valley in Washington to go with my incredibly tender grilled fillet (a splurge, yes, but sometimes we need these things in our lives), I will somehow find a way to be okay with that.

Cat’s Out of the Bag

Not that the cat was ever in the bag to begin with.  Seriously?  That would just be cruel.  Who comes up with these things?

Okay, so sometimes I might chase my dogs around the house with the vacuum or try to trap them in the laundry basket.

But that’s not the same thing.  Because they know it’s all in fun.  I’m pretty sure.

Anyway.  For some reason, they’ve let me post another article to the site, Musings on Life and Love.

Even though I have no clue what I’m talking about.

Shhh.  I won’t tell if you won’t.

Go check it out!

Mad Housewife My Ass

I asked Justin the other day if he would buy me a bottle of wine (or six) when he stopped at the store to pick up stuff to make this.

So, imagine my surprise when I opened the refrigerator door to find this:

What.  The.  Hell.

He thought it was funny.

You know, because I kind of am a mad housewife.

For those of you who watch Sex and the City (the shows, not the crappy movies), remember when Charlotte’s husband got her a cutout of a cardboard baby as a “joke” when they found out she couldn’t have kids of her own?

Yeah.  It’s kind of like that.

I mean… I can’t imagine why he saw this and thought of me.

It’s not like there’s a resemblance.

*The best part is what the bottle says on the back: “Somewhere near the cool shadows of the laundry room.  Past the litter box and between the plastic yard toys.  This is your time.  Time to enjoy a moment to yourself.  A moment without the madness.  The dishes can wait.  Dinner be damned.”

YES!  Why make dinner when you can have WINE instead?

There are Many Things that I Would Like to Say to You

But I don’t know how…

Scratch that.

I do know how.  But that doesn’t make it any easier.  So I’m going to get straight to the point:

I broke up with my counselor yesterday.

I’d forgotten what that was like – to break up with someone.  To tell another person you’re pretty certain he or she no longer has a role in your life.  It feels pretty shitty.  But also pretty good.  Because, while I don’t want to hurt her personally, I know – in my guts – that this was the right move for me.

Of course I took the typical chicken route and did it via awkward voicemail.

I figured since we hadn’t slept together, I was still following acceptable breakup protocol.

And I might have called during a typical appointment time, so I knew she probably would not be able to answer the phone.  I know.  You’re thinking my cojones are like the size of bb pellets right now.  And you’re probably right.  Because instead of confessing the truth – confronting her with the real reason I wanted to break up – I left a rambling message something akin to, Umm.  I need to cancel my appointment for tomorrow.  I’m sorry for the short notice, but I think you said you need 24 hours, so hopefully this works.  Umm.  I think I’ve decided counseling just isn’t something I want to do right now.  Soo yeah.  Call me at this number if you have any questions.

Counseling just isn’t something I want to do right now?  That’s the reason I gave her?  I’ll admit that part of that excuse rings true, but that’s not even close to the real reason I’m certain our relationship won’t work.  And it’s not me – it’s most definitely her.

I knew it by the end of our second appointment.

I hadn’t really felt a “click” from the beginning, but considering I’d never seen a counselor before and wasn’t even sure if there was supposed to be a “click,” I wanted to stick it out and give her a chance.

But, like I said, by the end of date #2, I just knew.

At the risk of potentially alienating some of you lovely readers, I’m just going to go ahead and tell you something about me in case you haven’t already figured it out:  I’m not a particularly religious person.  I wasn’t raised that way, and no one since has been able to convince me that any particular religion is right for me.  Or just “right,” period.

I’m sorry if this upsets any of you, but trust me – people have tried to convince me to “join up” with certain religions.  Sometimes it feels like I’m being heavily recruited by several competing sororities and some are telling me, “Sign with us because we have the BEST social events,” or “Our philanthropy is TOP notch – we’ll spend your money wisely” or “WE have the nicest church, so you know God loves us best.”

And I’m sitting there thinking, really?  I consider myself a spiritual person.  And personally, I don’t feel the need to sign up for any particular dogma that (I feel) might keep me from growing and learning on my own.  And I love to learn from everybody.

I don’t think I’m better than anyone else based on my fluid, loose-leaf belief system.

I mean, that’s kind of the point.

So.  My intention here is not to open a discussion on religion.  It’s to give you a little background information so I can properly explain why I felt the need to break up with my counselor.

To my second appointment, I wore my distinctively gaudy and very noticeable Ganesh necklace, which represents a Hindu deity known for his ability to remove obstacles.  And I’m not gonna lie – I could use some obstacle removal in my life.  I mean – remember the old lady and the kittens?

Long story short, I expressed to her my interest in trying out some mind expansion exercises (aka. “meditation”), and she all but flipped her lid.

I’ll expand on this little pet project of mine at a later date, but all you need to know for right now is that I did not bring up the subject of religion, but had simply told her how elated I felt when I started reading this book about meditation that my friend in India sent me because, after reading only the first chapter, it finally – finally – felt like someone “got” me.

Someone understood my particular brand of “depression.”

Which is more than I could say for this counselor.

I could tell she was trying to remain professional, but she spent the next 20 minutes (cutting 10 minutes into her next appointment) delicately dancing around the subject of how meditation practices could be extremely dangerous because they could take me further away from THE God and let demons into my life and did I know that people in India worship cows, for crying out loud?

I looked down at my necklace and contemplated this predicament.  My counselor, whose job, I thought, it was to help guide me to my own conclusions about what’s best for me in life without giving any true opinions of her own, was flat-out telling me that a drug-free mind exercise I wanted to try was essentially evil and, even worse, she was essentially laughing at another culture – another belief system that while I certainly don’t practice, I definitely respect.

Like I said – I’m here to learn.  Not judge.

And clearly, she thought she was qualified to judge.  Either she noticed my necklace and is extremely insensitive, didn’t notice it and is extremely unobservant, or noticed it and didn’t know what it was, which pretty much makes her completely unqualified to comment at all.

So that’s that.

Irreconcilable differences.

I don’t judge her for her beliefs, but I certainly judge her for judging mine.

Or something like that.

I realize I probably should have told her the real reason I don’t want to see her again.  But honestly?  I think she knows.

She took it really well.  In fact, she called me back shortly after and left me a very kind, professional voicemail.  (I didn’t answer the phone because I was in the bathroom – not because I was avoiding her calls.  I think.)  To her credit, I’m pretty sure she knew this was coming.  Even though I hadn’t implied that the problem was her, she did leave me the names and numbers of 2 other women in her office with whom I might be more comfortable working.

Those were her words – more comfortable.

But the thing is, I’m not sure I’ll ever be “comfortable” spilling my guts in the office of a complete stranger.  If she doesn’t make the mistake of spewing her own religious beliefs on me, I might be sitting there wondering – Is she judging me?  Does she think I’m an idiot?  Am I a lost cause and she just gets me to come back every 2 weeks so she can bank off my insurance?

No.  I think, for the time being, I’d rather spill my guts here in my own office to a whole bunch of complete strangers.  Because “listening” and giving feedback is your choice – not your obligation.

This doesn’t mean I’m done with counseling for good.  But right now, I have one other avenue I’d like to pursue, just to see if it’s a better fit.

My sister’s roommate (hey, Teagan!) gave me a quote from Lady Gaga who, surprisingly, describes my current sentiments based on this last experience exactly:

“I’m terrified of therapy because I don’t want it to mess with my creativity.”

Yep.

What she said.

Turns Out Turkey is Good for More than Just Thanksgiving…

I’m not gonna lie.

Those of you who know me and/or have been reading the blog for a good while (so you pretty much know me too), know that I like me some red meat.

Delicious baked pork loin topped with stuffing?

Yes, please.

Anything with sausage?

Don’t think you could stop me.

Grilled ranch beef burgers stuffed with fresh mozzarella cheese?

Bet I can fit a whole one in my mouth.

Just kidding.

Mostly.

Pan fried steak sandwich with caramelized onions?

Steak Sandwich

I’m pretty sure I just jizzed in my pants.

Anyway.

Red meat most certainly doesn’t have to be a part of every main meal – in fact, meat in general doesn’t have to be a part of every main meal – but I do like it.  I don’t think I could ever voluntarily give it up entirely.

However, in the name of health, I occasionally substitute red meat – especially hamburger – for a leaner poultry like ground turkey or chicken.  Especially if it’s a meal that’s heavily seasoned with taco seasoning or a medley of ingredients like these Taco Rice Bowls of Deliciousness, I find I can get away with a non-beef substitute.

But turkey burgers?

No, thanks.

Every time I tried them, they turned out dry and tasteless.  SO not like a regular beef burger with a lovely pink center and juices that soak into the lightly toasted bun…

*Hang on, I need to wipe the drool off my keyboard.*

Until now, that is.

Friends, meet the Spinach Feta Turkey Burger.  I found the recipe on Eat, Live, Run, where Jenna, an extremely talented chef and recipe creator, shares her amazing food.

And I will tell you – these burgers really are ah-maz-ing.

I’m seriously so glad I decided to try them.

And they really only took about 20 minutes to make.

Here’s what you need:

  • 1 lb. ground turkey (I used 1.25, since that’s what came in the package)
  • 1 egg, lightly beaten
  • 5 oz. frozen spinach, defrosted (I used almost the whole box since I had more meat. This recipe is very forgiving.  I simply microwaved the spinach for a couple minutes after cutting a ventilation slit in the bag, and then squeezed out as much of the water as I could.)
  • 3/4 cups crumbled feta cheese (I used a whole cup)
  • 1 tsp. salt
  • 1/4 tsp. pepper
  • Buns (I toasted mine with butter on a griddle)
  • Garnish (All I used was a bit of mayo mixed with fresh basil and lemon juice, which is what I made as a dip for the sweet potato fries we had on the side.  Turns out it worked pretty well on the burgers!)
1.  Mix your ingredients together in a bowl.

2.  Use your hands to form the mixture into patties (I made 5 patties with 1.25 lbs of turkey). Heat a couple of tablespoons of olive oil in a pan over medium heat, and cook the burgers for 6-8 minutes per side until the meat is cooked through (no longer pink).

*Make sure you don’t have your heat set too high.  Unlike beef burgers, turkey burgers need to be thoroughly cooked all the way through.  If the heat is too high, you’ll burn the outside of the burgers before the inside is fully cooked.  It might help to make them a little flatter than I made mine, but hey – I like to live on the edge.

That’s IT!

Stick ’em on a bun, and they’re ready to eat.  They’re absolutely delicious.

In fact, I might have to make one for myself tonight.

As usual, my photos of the finished product are awful.  I’m not sure what I’m doing wrong.  Part of the problem is I ran out of decent light.  And I was in a hurry because I really wanted to eat my burger.  Is that a crime?

Didn’t think so.

Definitely check out Jenna’s fantastic site for even more enticing pictures.  And thanks, Jenna, for finally convincing me that turkey actually CAN make a delicious burger.