For years now, as Thanksgiving approaches, my wife has been suggesting that we dispense with the time-honored tradition of wives cooking huge meals while husbands wander around the house aimlessly looking for something to do but never actually saying, "Is there anything I can do?"

Why not, she asks each fall, just deep-fry a turkey outside? Every year, we discuss it (in reality, I just shout "NO!" at the top of my lungs) and end up agreeing to follow the hallowed traditions of the season. The discussion gets more efficient each season. Last year, all she had to do was say "Hey, I've got an idea ..." before I ran out of the room with my hands over my ears.

The point is, of course, that the job of deep-frying a turkey would fall to me, while she stayed inside making side dishes. Even suggesting this is insensitive of her, as she knows well I have this quirky thing about not wanting to catch on fire and die horribly.

I've seen the disaster videos on YouTube, and I know that within seconds, a five-gallon bucket of boiling oil suspended over an open flame can turn into a conflagration so bright the astronauts on the shuttle would look out their window and wonder what the heck was going on down here. And if something did go wrong, I'm not entirely confident that anyone else in my family could keep their wits about them long enough to render assistance.

My biggest fear is that my wife and children would stand by, mouths agape, as I was engulfed in the inferno. I picture myself engulfed in a big ball of flame, then running in circles until I slowly sputter out like a pathetic home fireworks display, leaving just a pile of smoldering ash. By the time paramedics got there, they'd need a broom and dustpan to get me into the ambulance.

This year, my wife announced that she was going to deep-fry a turkey herself. As a writer for the Post-Gazette's food section, she had to test out recipes she recommended, even if it meant volunteering for possible cremation. She had to do it well before Thanksgiving, so I figured it wouldn't interfere with the real holiday bird I looked forward to but did nothing to prepare.

She bought a turkey and a five-gallon barrel of peanut oil, borrowed a fryer and set it up on our driveway. Minutes later, we had a boiling cauldron of oil going on our driveway. I expected our insurance agent to screech up to the curb, waving our homeowner's policy and pointing to the "exclusions" paragraph.

Within seconds of the oil heating up, my father-in-law, who lives around the corner, came strolling up our driveway. I'm not sure anyone actually told him what we were planning to do. But I do know my mother-in-law has had him on a healthy diet and I don't believe he's had anything deep fried since 1986. I wouldn't be surprised if he had been sitting at home, smelled oil cooking, slipped out the door and wandered around the neighborhood until he found the source.

Neighborhood kids gathered, some excited by the thought of the doughnuts my wife planned to test in the hot oil, some clearly hoping the neighbor lady would explode into a fireball they could one day tell their kids about.

Then ... nothing happened. There were a few spills, and at one point the bucket threatened to overflow, but in the end, we had a pretty nice turkey. Sure, our driveway ended up splattered with spilled oil, but between neighborhood raccoons and squirrels, helped out by our family dog, all the spilled oil magically disappeared overnight.

When it was over, my wife patted me on the shoulder with an oily hand.

"See!" she said. "That wasn't so bad. Maybe we can do it ourselves for Thanksgiving!"

"You can," I said. "You're the one with the experience. But I'll hang around in case you need some help!"