Thanksgiving
Chapter 16: Thanksgiving
Dean surveyed the Madison kitchen as she entered the room. Taylor was whisking… something in a large bowl, occasionally telling John to make the slices of onion a little thinner. Ryan, Taylor’s husband, was chatting to someone on the phone and stopped only long enough to call out, “Happy Thanksgiving from the Cohens, young and old!”
Taylor called back, “How’s Summer doing?”
“Trying to remind herself why she let Seth talk his way back into their bed after her first experience with childbirth,” Ryan answered with a smile. He paused, listening. “She also says that we are expected at their house for Chrismukkah and she insists you bake to satisfy her every holiday cookie craving.”
Ben raised an eyebrow and looked over at Karl, mouthing, “Chrismukkah?”
“Tell you later,” and a smile was the silent response.
Sally tilted her head as she ripped bread into small chunks for stuffing. Dean could tell the teen was already figuring out the concept and how it could be utilised to wrangle more presents.
“Dean!” Ben called out, having just noticed the new presence in the, blessedly large and warm, kitchen. “How are you with the fine art of napkin folding?”
“Point me to that which needs to be subdued into manageable bits of paper,” Dean replied. She held up a covered dish. “Uh, I brought food.”
Gentry, the nearest to her as he opened the cans of cranberry sauce and put them in bowls, pointed with his elbow to a bit of empty table space. “What is it?”
Dean pretended adjusting the dish in the perfect position was of the utmost importance. “It’s… well, my mom, years ago, she, uh… she made these really good mashed potatoes with like a special sauce. I’m not sure I got it exactly right, so... you know, it may be toxic.” A nervous laugh bubbled from her mouth.
Karl brought over the sweet potatoes Ben had just finished and set them next to Dean’s offering. “I’m sure it’ll be great. But you’re driving us all to hospital if we get food poisoning.”
The joke offset Dean’s tenseness and she smiled. “Deal. Now, about those napkins…”
They wandered back into the kitchen and, bit by bit, the Thanksgiving meal came together.
Once everyone was assembled on mismatched chairs around the large farmhouse table, Ben stood and cleared his throat. “I know the greeting cards and Publix commercials would like everyone to believe that this holiday is all about family members and extravagant feasts of heirloom foods. I say to them, ‘Love is what matters. These people are my friends; they want to be welcomed into my home to celebrate with affection and simple homely fare: not to judge.’”
“What are you quoting?” Sally smirked at her father.
“Bridget Jones’ Diary and shut up. Family is what this season is supposedly all about. I extend that to my friends who have, in this past crazy nine months become a family to me and mine. I know we’re all psychotic, single, barring Taylor and Ryan, and completely dysfunctional, but it’s a bit like a family, yeah?” He raised his glass. “To our families, those seated in this room and those who aren’t,” he swallowed and continued, “to those who are of my blood,” his eyes flicked to a picture of Cody, “and the rest of you unlucky bastards who aren’t.”
A titter of laughter went through the group.
“To us,” Ben concluded.
“To us,” chorused the assembled voices and the clinking of a medley of glasses, mugs, and plastic cups signalled the end to the speech.
Taylor clapped her hands. “A real small town Thanksgiving,” she giddily crowed.
“Dim Lights. Small Town,” Sally said with a find smile.
“I know that musical,” Gentry commented and he shared a secret smile with Sally. “Bright Lights. Big City, right?”
“Right,” Sally beamed.
Dean looked up and down the table as the food made its way around to everyone. If you ignored the unmatched dishes and chairs and cups, and how the food was a hodgepodge of everyone’s holiday favourites, it was almost like those greeting cards and commercials. And if it wasn’t, Dean was certain it was better.
Dean surveyed the Madison kitchen as she entered the room. Taylor was whisking… something in a large bowl, occasionally telling John to make the slices of onion a little thinner. Ryan, Taylor’s husband, was chatting to someone on the phone and stopped only long enough to call out, “Happy Thanksgiving from the Cohens, young and old!”
Taylor called back, “How’s Summer doing?”
“Trying to remind herself why she let Seth talk his way back into their bed after her first experience with childbirth,” Ryan answered with a smile. He paused, listening. “She also says that we are expected at their house for Chrismukkah and she insists you bake to satisfy her every holiday cookie craving.”
Ben raised an eyebrow and looked over at Karl, mouthing, “Chrismukkah?”
“Tell you later,” and a smile was the silent response.
Sally tilted her head as she ripped bread into small chunks for stuffing. Dean could tell the teen was already figuring out the concept and how it could be utilised to wrangle more presents.
“Dean!” Ben called out, having just noticed the new presence in the, blessedly large and warm, kitchen. “How are you with the fine art of napkin folding?”
“Point me to that which needs to be subdued into manageable bits of paper,” Dean replied. She held up a covered dish. “Uh, I brought food.”
Gentry, the nearest to her as he opened the cans of cranberry sauce and put them in bowls, pointed with his elbow to a bit of empty table space. “What is it?”
Dean pretended adjusting the dish in the perfect position was of the utmost importance. “It’s… well, my mom, years ago, she, uh… she made these really good mashed potatoes with like a special sauce. I’m not sure I got it exactly right, so... you know, it may be toxic.” A nervous laugh bubbled from her mouth.
Karl brought over the sweet potatoes Ben had just finished and set them next to Dean’s offering. “I’m sure it’ll be great. But you’re driving us all to hospital if we get food poisoning.”
The joke offset Dean’s tenseness and she smiled. “Deal. Now, about those napkins…”
They wandered back into the kitchen and, bit by bit, the Thanksgiving meal came together.
Once everyone was assembled on mismatched chairs around the large farmhouse table, Ben stood and cleared his throat. “I know the greeting cards and Publix commercials would like everyone to believe that this holiday is all about family members and extravagant feasts of heirloom foods. I say to them, ‘Love is what matters. These people are my friends; they want to be welcomed into my home to celebrate with affection and simple homely fare: not to judge.’”
“What are you quoting?” Sally smirked at her father.
“Bridget Jones’ Diary and shut up. Family is what this season is supposedly all about. I extend that to my friends who have, in this past crazy nine months become a family to me and mine. I know we’re all psychotic, single, barring Taylor and Ryan, and completely dysfunctional, but it’s a bit like a family, yeah?” He raised his glass. “To our families, those seated in this room and those who aren’t,” he swallowed and continued, “to those who are of my blood,” his eyes flicked to a picture of Cody, “and the rest of you unlucky bastards who aren’t.”
A titter of laughter went through the group.
“To us,” Ben concluded.
“To us,” chorused the assembled voices and the clinking of a medley of glasses, mugs, and plastic cups signalled the end to the speech.
Taylor clapped her hands. “A real small town Thanksgiving,” she giddily crowed.
“Dim Lights. Small Town,” Sally said with a find smile.
“I know that musical,” Gentry commented and he shared a secret smile with Sally. “Bright Lights. Big City, right?”
“Right,” Sally beamed.
Dean looked up and down the table as the food made its way around to everyone. If you ignored the unmatched dishes and chairs and cups, and how the food was a hodgepodge of everyone’s holiday favourites, it was almost like those greeting cards and commercials. And if it wasn’t, Dean was certain it was better.