“Mother, please don’t force me to sit next to
Sam.” I stopped peeling potatoes and
turned toward my eleven-year-old daughter standing in the kitchen doorway. She was
wearing a T-shirt displaying the heads of *NSYNC band members, although only Justin
Timberlake was clearly visible beneath her puffy purple vest.
“I could do with some
help here, Em,” I said, returning to my spuds and ignoring her request. “And you
are planning to change clothes, I hope? Wear the dress Grandma bought you.”
“Did you hear me, Mom?
Because I’ll just die if I have to sit next to him.”
I smiled as I skinned a potato
in a long single twist of the knife. “Well, I don’t think you will physically die, Emily. And what’s wrong with Sam,
anyway?” He was the fourteen-year-old
son of my best friends, and as far as I knew was a nice boy. But who trusted
teenage boys?
Emily was fully into the
kitchen now and picked up a knife. “We have nothing in common.”
“Mmm.” I attacked another
potato. “I find that hard to believe. You’ve known him your whole life. What
does he like to do?”
“Dumb stuff. And when’s
Dad getting here?”
I stopped peeling. “He is
stuck in Denver. They had a big snowfall, and all flights are grounded.”
“Oh, poor Daddy,” Emily
said. “He misses out on everything.”
“Yes,” I replied
noncommittally, gratefully distracted when Kit James and her husband, Larry, arrived
with their son Sam in tow. “That better not be a turkey,” I said to Kit, taking
a turkey-shaped platter covered in tinfoil from her hands.
“Don’t have a fit, Val. I
just thought you should have a backup. I’m sure yours will be perfect, and we’ll
just toss this old thing in the garbage if no one eats it.”
I put her bird on the
island, but Kit was now inspecting the green bean casserole that was waiting
its turn for the oven. “Mmm,” she said, examining the glass dish. “I don’t see
any water chestnuts.”
“Because there aren’t any.”
“What about fresh
mushrooms? You did slice up fresh mushrooms, right?”
They were a favorite of
my husband, David. “No, Emily and I don’t like them.”
“Don’t tell me you used those
god-awful fried onion things that pop out of a can like a snake.”
“Well, of course I did.
That’s what makes the dish.”
“No, dear, that’s what ruins the dish. You should always have some
homemade croutons on hand—much better for crunch. Larry, run back home and get
some; they’re in the fridge—”
“Don’t you dare, Larry,”
I said.
“Not a chance.” He
grinned. “So, where is David?”
I turned back to the stove
to avoid their faces. “David is stuck in Denver. Weather related.”
“Weather related, my
ass,” Kit muttered as she began stirring the gravy. “You do know there are
lumps in this, don’t you? Larry, why don’t you and the kids go watch the parade.”
Before following his
wife’s request, Larry gave me a kiss on the cheek. “Your casserole looks
terrific,” he said. “Don’t listen to Kit. She thinks she’s the only one who can
cook.”
“So . . . ,”
Kit began as soon as we were alone. “David’s stuck in Dallas—”
“Denver—”
“Wherever. Are you
upset?”
“Why should I be upset?”
I added salt to the potatoes.
“Ya know, I offered to
cook Thanksgiving dinner at my house. I don’t see why we had to—”
I spun around to face her.
“Because this is our home. And
because Emily was in a play last night . . . “The King and
I” . . . she played Princess Ling or something, and she was wonderful—”
“Yes, yes, I know. We
were there—”
“Well, maybe you can tell
her father next time you see him how his amazing daughter beat out a fourteen-year-old
for the part.” I was aware of the strain caused by holding back tears.
“Don’t worry; I will. Did
you record it at least?” she asked. “Ya know, for Asshole to see.”
“Yes, but not for him; I’ll
tell him I forgot. He’ll believe that because he thinks I’m so stupid.” I
dabbed at my eyes some more. “I don’t want Emily to see me upset.”
“Why not? Maybe she needs to know what a son
of a bitch her father is.”
“No, no. She’s too young
for that. Will you keep an eye on dinner while I fix my face?” My watery eyes were
beginning to undo the makeup I’d put on that morning.
“Of course. But I know
whose face I’d like to fix.”
Kit managed to save the
dismal dinner. She spiced up the canned yams with a little nutmeg and curry and
added some cherry brandy to the cranberries. (Who knew I had these items in my kitchen?)
And without saying a word, she discreetly replaced my dried-out turkey with hers,
all juicy and golden brown. So much better.
When we sat down to eat,
my father said the blessing, including those people who lost their lives in the
World Trade Center. Then my brother told us a funny story about his new hunting
dog. Emily, who’d changed into an empire-waist minidress and clunky knee-high
boots, had grabbed the chair next to Sam and appeared captivated by his word-for-word
account of the movie Lord of the Rings,
which he’d just seen. My Aunt Delia claimed she was still so upset over terror
bombings that she could barely eat and offered proof by foregoing a third slice
of pumpkin pie. And my mother remarked that the green bean dish was a little soggy.
Needs more crunch, Valerie.
Later, when the table had
been cleared and Aunt Delia was in the kitchen pulling the remaining white meat
off the turkey carcass, David called to say it looked like he’d be able to get
a flight home on Saturday. I didn’t call Emily to the phone since she looked
happy watching Friends with Sam in
the living room. I was standing by the patio doors in the kitchen, sipping a
cup of coffee, when Kit joined me.
“Great meal,” she said,
putting an arm around my shoulders.
“Thanks to you.” I
smiled. “I’m glad you came.”
“Me too.” She smiled
back, as we watched Aunt Delia take the last slice of pie.
“No point letting it go
to waste,” she said, catching our glances, the loaded fork headed to her mouth.
“Go for it; it’s Thanksgiving.”
Kit laughed.
And here’s wishing all our
readers a very Happy Thanksgiving. We hope your table is surrounded by the
people you love. And crunch should be optional.
