The Thanksgiving Dinner
Mom is in bed. And she isn’t getting out. Not even for Thanksgiving.
Mom’s operation was three days ago, and she says she’s feeling much better. But she’s staying in bed. And she isn’t getting out. Not even for Thanksgiving.
I’m the oldest. David is in the middle, or should I say in the muddle. He’s smart, for sure, but sometimes he gets so wrapped up in his projects that he forgets the rest of the world exists. Jennifer is six years younger than I am, and she’s either happy or sad, but never in between. And that is why, on a cold November morning, Dad told me that I would be cooking Thanksgiving dinner.
It’s only going to be us—no company or anything—but I am still worried. I’ve never cooked any kind of dinner before, and here I am starting off with an important one like Thanksgiving.
Dad says he’ll do the turkey. Dad always does the turkey. He makes the stuffing in Grandma’s old striped mixing bowl, which has cracks in it that are older than my dad. He crumbles the bread with his long fingers and crams the stuffing inside the turkey until it looks like it should burst. Then he lines up little sausages—like pale soldiers—on the top of the turkey, holding them in place with toothpicks. He says they keep the meat moist, but Mom thinks it’s just an excuse for him to eat sausage. It’s not on his diet.
Dad says he’ll do the turkey. He says it as if the turkey were the whole thing. As if the rest were easy. As if I knew how to make those little marshmallows melt just right over the sweet potatoes. As if I knew how to mash potatoes so they don’t have lumps. As if I knew how to make the baked onions that no one but Dad will touch but without which Thanksgiving wouldn’t be Thanksgiving.
Dad says he’ll do the turkey. But what if the vegetables aren’t done on time? What if something burns? What if it’s a disaster and it’s all my fault and everyone remembers for our whole lives the Thanksgiving that I personally ruined, even though Dad did the turkey?
My friend Stan doesn’t understand my sudden interest in giblets. I had asked our teacher whether she usually put them in the gravy or the stuffing. Then Stan caught me watching his mother boil potatoes for dinner. He stood in amazement as I inquired about peeling technique and temperature. Stan thinks I’m weird.
When I woke up this morning and realized it was Thanksgiving, I felt sick. Mom says today is my chance to shine. I don’t see it that way. I figure there’s only one way to shine and a whole lot of ways to mess up.
Fortunately, Jennifer is in a good mood. I couldn’t take her whining right now. David is in his room working on a model of a monkey’s brain. Mom is in bed, of course. And she is definitely not getting out. Dad is doing the turkey. And I’m trying to read Mom’s handwriting on some recipe cards that are so stained with food spills that they could be made into a casserole themselves. I don’t have a chance.
The onions went into the oven first. They were actually pretty easy. I had started on the sweet potatoes when Dad yelled out from the living room that something smelled terrific. Things were looking up.
Then a cold feeling rushed through my body. Dessert. How could I have forgotten? We always have pie at Thanksgiving. Maybe Dad had bought a pie. No such luck. Maybe we could run to the store to buy a pie. Closed for Thanksgiving. Disaster. I knew it. I forgot the pie.
I went to the pantry to analyze my options. When I’m an adult I will definitely keep a supply of pie fillings for emergencies like this. The closest thing I could find was a jar of applesauce. It would have to do. But what could I use for the crust? I looked around. Cereal. Everyone likes cereal. I took down a few boxes and, unable to choose, mixed them together, mashing them down in the pie plate. They didn’t stick together very well, so I mixed in some peanut butter. Then I poured in the applesauce and put the whole thing in the oven.
All in all, dinner went pretty well. Mom stayed in bed. And she didn’t get out. She ate her food from a tray, tasting each thing and remarking “not bad” and “good job” and “nicely done.” She stopped when she got to the pie. It was unusual. The peanut butter had melted, leaving a shell of multi-colored cereal fragments and creating an oil slick on the filling. “Interesting presentation,” she said.
Mom liked the sweet potatoes best. Dad said he liked the onions best, but I saw him sneak a couple of sausages when he put the turkey away. David and Jennifer both thought the pie was cool—their highest compliment. I was just glad dinner was over.
Next year Mom is going to make the Thanksgiving dinner. She says I won’t even have to help because I had to do everything this year. So I plan to stay in bed. And I’m not getting out. Not until dinner is ready.
