Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 101985 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 510(@200wpm)___ 408(@250wpm)___ 340(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101985 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 510(@200wpm)___ 408(@250wpm)___ 340(@300wpm)
“Why not?” she counters. “You’ve taught me plenty.” I can’t argue with that.
I also can’t believe how nice this is. Strange, different, but nice. I could almost believe this is a normal situation, that we’re just two normal people making shit happen in a kitchen on Thanksgiving Day. Is this what it’s like to live a regular life? It’s the sort of thing I could get used to if such a thing were possible.
But it’s not, and I have to remember that. No matter how much I don’t want to, no matter how inconvenient it is. This is not my normal life. This isn’t how things are supposed to be.
That’s not going to stop me from enjoying it while I can. As much as I can.
The way she took this whole dinner thing seriously was almost touching. Narrowing down which dishes she would prepare based on the ones we both like most. Mashed potatoes were an obvious choice. Neither of us is crazy about stuffing, so we’re skipping that. She insisted on cranberry sauce, and I agreed—but only if it’s from a can. “I hate that fresh shit,” I told her, and she did her best not to get too offended. I’m not trying to eat any actual cranberries. If there aren’t marks from the can on it, it’s not cranberry sauce.
That, some rolls, a vegetable—at her insistence—and we’ll have a nice dinner. She even baked two pies yesterday—one apple, one pumpkin. She’d hate it if she knew how cute she looked, kneading the dough with a touch of flour on the tip of her nose. She walked around like that for at least an hour before catching her reflection in the microwave.
“When was the last time you had Thanksgiving with your family?” she asks all of a sudden. She has a tendency to do that, to hit me with a question I had no idea she was even thinking of.
I have to pause for a second and think about it. “You know, I can’t remember.”
“Really? You can’t?”
I almost resent how sad she sounds. “Is that wrong?”
“No, of course, it isn’t. It’s not wrong. I’m just a little surprised, I guess.”
“How come?”
She’s quiet for a long second before laughing. “Because I’m naïve. That’s why. There’s your answer.”
“I don’t think you’re naïve.”
That gets her hooting with more laughter, louder this time. “Shut up. Yes, you do.”
“About some things, okay. I’ll admit that.”
She rolls her eyes. “Gee, thanks.” Meanwhile, she’s loosening the skin on the top of the turkey with a bowl of butter and other stuff next to her on the counter. It’s enough to make me want to gag. Only knowing how offended she’d be if I did stops me.
“What are you doing?” I ask instead.
“What’s it look like? I’m getting the turkey ready.” When all I do is stare, a little disgusted, she explains. “I mix butter with herbs and orange zest, then tuck it under the skin next to the breast.” She takes a glob of soft butter and inserts it under the skin, then smooths it back in one long, slow motion over the top of the skin with her other hand.
“That’s a little bit disgusting,” I have to admit. If she only knew the worst of what I’ve seen—the aftermath of things I’ve done—she would laugh herself sick. Even I find it funny. I can turn a guy’s head to strawberry jelly, but I can’t stand the sight of turkey preparation.
“Just wait. It will be so delicious.” She then slides me a knowing look. “Anyway, back to the subject. How come you didn’t have Thanksgiving with your family? We never really talked about them.”
“Did you ever think there might be a reason for that?”
I didn’t mean to make her feel bad, but she blushes anyway before lowering her gaze back to the bird. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I shouldn’t assume.”
“No, I shouldn’t give you shit over the stuff you don’t know about.” I finish the last potato, leaving a pile of peels in the sink, then look around for a knife. I’m not going to be one of those guys who acts like he doesn’t know what comes next. I’ve at least watched mashed potatoes getting prepared before. “It’s just I usually had to work on Thanksgiving. So did my dad. And it was pretty much just the two of us for most of my life, except when I was real little and living with my grandparents.”
“So your father worked—”
“For your dad and his family, yeah. For a long time. That’s how I got this job.” I look around. “You have a pot for these?”
“You know where the pots are,” she reminds me. I do, so I grab one and fill it with water. She’s not going to let me change the subject, is she?
“Anyway, we usually ended up keeping an eye on things while the family—your family—had their meal. There was always extra food leftover, and we always ate later with the rest of the crew on duty. Back in the kitchen, you know, wherever there was room.”