ZEKE
“Can you peel these potatoes, please?” Mia turns away from what she’s doing to the turkey long enough to jerk her chin toward the strainer, where she scrubbed a handful of potatoes earlier.
“You’re assuming I know how to handle a peeler.”
“You don’t?” She looks my way, one eyebrow raised. “Are you serious?”
“No, I can peel potatoes. My grandmother taught me when I was a kid.” Though it’s been a long time since I’ve
had to do it. “I was just screwing with you.”
“Well, you can’t blame me for taking you seriously.”
“I’ve cooked before, remember?”
“Right. Boiling pasta and heating a jar of sauce. A culinary masterpiece.”
I take a swat at her ass before taking a peeler to the first potato. “Looks like you’ll have to teach me a few things.”
“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 were 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 liked 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 and 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 tends 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 naive. That’s why. There’s your answer.”
“I don’t think you’re naive.”
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 blushed 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 left over, and we always ate later with the rest of the crew on duty. Back in the kitchen, you know, wherever there was room.”
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?” I ask with a chuckle. “You don’t need to feel sorry. To tell you the truth, I’ve never known it any other way, at least not that I can remember too clearly. So it’s not like I lost out on anything.”
“I guess you’re right.”
“How about you?” I nod toward the turkey before
winking at her. “I get the feeling this isn’t your first time.”
“Honestly? It sort of is.”
“What? How did you know how to do that?” I ask, gesturing toward the bird she’s now tying up with twine.
“I watched videos, and I used to watch cooking shows on TV. We couldn’t afford a turkey for Thanksgiving. Sometimes we’d get a chicken or a free ham if the supermarket was giving them away-like, if you bought a certain amount of groceries, you’d get something free. We did the best we could with what we had.”
She turns back toward her work with a little smile. “This is the first time I’ve ever been able to do everything I want. Like, I could just go crazy and buy all the ingredients my heart desired. That was nice.”
And now I wish I had let her make her disgusting cranberry sauce from scratch. “So I’m not going to die of food poisoning or anything?”
“I’ll do my best,” she retorts with a smirk. Her whole life, she’s done her best to make do with what she was given, and now she’s been given so much. Strange how I used to think of her as a brat. She still can be, especially when she digs her heels in. But at her core, she’s one of the most down-to-earth people I’ve ever met. And she still appreciates everything she’s been given instead of taking it for granted the way other people do.
I go back to my potatoes, cutting them up and trying hard not to imagine a younger version of her cooking a pitiful little dinner.