Turkey Olympics

My husband has agreed to cook the Thanksgiving dinner all by himself this year.
This is going to keep me in laughter for the next FIVE years I predict.
The man can cook...don't get me wrong. Well..he can BAKE. The man can bake like a pastry chef. My birthday cake this year was that elaborate thing on the cover of Martha Stewart's Baking Handbook. (and he declared it the easiest thing to make in the whole book) Don't you just love you some Martha?!!
It was AMAZING. My daughter was talking about it in her sleep she was so obsessed with it. It was gone in two days flat.
I cannot bake. Not even slice and bake cookies. I find a way to screw even THAT up. But I can cook amazing meals. (And yes I will brag because it is one of the few things I CAN DO. I'm not crafty, can't take a picture, I can't even paint the nursery without it looking like a disaster)
The question is...how is it I can cook entire holiday meals for 50 or more and my house smells like THE HOLIDAYS. This man can make a grilled cheese sandwich and EVERY TIME and I do mean EVERY TIME...we have to open up windows and fan the smoke detector?
He does breakfast every weekend. It turns out delicious but you would never know it by the smell coming out of the kitchen. How my sofa has managed to last all these years without smelling like a grease fire is beyond me. Or maybe it does and I'm just oblivious.
ANYWAY!
I woke up this morning to discover that my kitchen chalk board has been taken over by his battle plan. Arrows, lists, time tables, you name it. With DO NOT ERASE written in huge letters across the top.
For some reason there is an urgent quest for truffle oil.
Ohhhh. My.
These are MY RULES.
I will not be making ANY-THING.
I will not spend my entire holiday telling you where the garlic powder is.
(I try to keep that pantry organized to no avail. And being a man, he is not about looking for things. He likes to open the door to the pantry..glaze his eyes over in a non focused way and scream "Where the hell is the vanilla extract??!!". Without so much as pretending to look for it. As if I'm psychic and can just magically tell him from the sofa, that it is behind the angel hair to the right of the peanut butter. LOOK FOR IT!!)
I will SURE AS HELL not be CLEANING anything. So clean as you go.
Any clanging sound involving MY CHINA, MY CRYSTAL, MY GRANDMOTHERS BOWLS, or any other precious thing will resort in the back end of your ass meeting the sharp edge of my tongue at intolerably LOUD DECIBELS.
Be. Careful.
I reserve the right to eat pie before the soup.
And with the soup. (There WILL be soup right??!)
And with my turkey.
I'll keep you posted.