(Illustration by Stripes Guam)
Our Lab, Gilligan, follows me down the stairs, waiting patiently while I stop to peer at the thermostat. Four jabs at the button kicks the furnace on to reduce the chill in our drafty old house. I don’t like waking at 6:30 a.m. on holidays, but there’s a lot to do on Thanksgiving Day.
After making his morning deposits in the grass, Gilligan sprints back to the house as if his life depends on it. For Labs, meals are the highlights of every day. In the laundry room, Gilligan inhales his breakfast kibble, guzzles water, then joins me in the kitchen with a look on his dripping muzzle that says, “Is it lunchtime yet?”
The Keurig gurgles coffee into my waiting cup, and I sip it carefully like medicine meant to revive me from near death. While I wait for caffeine to work its magic, I glance at the notepad upon which I’d written my task list.
“Cook and crumble sausage; dice six onions; dice eight ribs of celery; steam green beans; cook whole sweet potatoes; bake cornbread; remove turkey innards. ...” the list goes on. “Put turkey innards, veg and water in saucepan; heat on low,” I read aloud and move around the kitchen in my robe, grabbing the necessary items. Simmering the gravy starter first thing Thanksgiving morning is my secret strategy to fill the house with the cozy scent of cooking turkey.
“Cube cornbread; saute onions; chop apple; simmer cranberries ...” the list goes on, and on, and on.
“Mom, where is everybody?” my 30-year-old son’s presence startles me as I wrestle the turkey out of the cooler where it brined overnight. “The Macy’s Parade is starting,” he says matter-of-factly. I’m so engrossed in my work, I have no inkling that hours have passed.
“Honey?!” Holding my raw-turkey-tainted hands in the air, I yell upstairs to my husband and twenty-something daughters, “Anna? Lilly? Are you up?! Hayden’s here!”
“Happy Thanksgiving, buddy!” Francis appears, freshly showered, doused in cologne and dressed in festive corduroys embroidered with pheasants. Father and son exchange back-slapping hugs. Commandeering three feet of my precious countertop, Francis makes Bloody Marys before he and Hayden escape to the family room to watch the televised parade.
With melted butter splattered on my robe and hair in my eyes, I prepare the stuffing, season the turkey, mash the sweet potatoes and assemble the green bean casserole.
Anna shows up an hour later, hungry for breakfast, and moves my pots to cook eggs. As soon as her toast pops up, she departs for the family room, leaving crumbs, a dirty frying pan and smears of avocado in her wake.
While I’m peeling potatoes, Francis returns to refresh his drink and says, “Hey Hon, c’mon out in the family room. We’ve got a nice fire going and the football game’s about to start.” My eye begins to twitch. Francis leaves the kitchen in a cloud of cologne with a fresh pair of Bloody Marys. I realize I haven’t brushed my teeth yet.
Alone in the kitchen, my resentment builds. I decide to order Anna and Lilly to come help me mash the potatoes, when I see the girls out the kitchen window in our yard, dolled up, taking photos of each other to post on social media.
“Hon?” Francis yells into the kitchen, “What’s the ETA on the turkey? Hayden and I are getting hungry. Should we eat a snack?”
The pot of potatoes boils over, and I hear the hiss and crackle of water hitting the flame.
When everything is almost done, I take the turkey out of the oven to rest. I ask the girls to set the table so I can take a shower before we eat, which sets off an argument about Hayden never having to do anything.
An hour later, my family has finished the meal that took me all day alone in the kitchen to cook.
To their credit, our three adult children wash all the dishes, albeit while arguing. Francis serves me a glass of bubbly and a kiss, offering, “Go put your feet up for a while, you deserve it … besides, we won’t need pie for at least another hour.”
Read more at themeatandpotatoesoflife.com and in Lisa’s book, “The Meat and Potatoes of Life: My True Lit Com.” Email: meatandpotatoesoflife@gmail.com
