“My first Thanksgiving. My first Thanksgiving.” I sing happily under my breath as I pull the turkey out of the refrigerator and set it on the counter.
My husband laughs. “This isn’t your first Thanksgiving.”
“But it is the first one I am going to host.” I smile at him. “And it is going to be perfect.”
“I don’t know about that.” He looks at my turkey skeptically.
“What exactly do you mean?” I put down the kitchen scissors I was using to snip the bird free of its form-fitting plastic casing
“It’s just that I don’t remember seeing that bird in the fridge until yesterday morning…”
“And…”
“That looks like a good-sized bird. It should have probably been in there starting what Saturday, maybe Sunday at the latest.”
My mouth drops open. I pick the scissors back up, pretending to decide how best to free the bird from its protective barrier. Instead, I lean in to peer at the tiny print telling me how much the bird weighs. I rap on the turkey, frowning at both sound it makes and how hard and cold it feels against my knuckles as I search for the chart. Reading the chart confirms the sad news that my husband is correct. I sigh heavily and put the scissors down again as I turn to face my husband.
“Looks like we won’t be eating this bird until Monday.” I fight back tears.
“Don’t worry! I’ve got this.” My husband gives me a quick hug before turning toward the living room.
I lean against the counter and fight back tears of shame as hushed voices make a soft hum from the living room. The hum ends with enthusiastic cheering from my nephews and a boisterous “boo-yah” from my brother-in-law.
“We’ve got cake. We’ve got pie. We’ve got green beans…” I begin listing off the important meal-makers that we do have.
By the time I finish my mental list, my husband has returned with my brother. They beam at me.
“We took a vote, but I need to know one thing.”
“And what is that?” I ask, holding my breath.
“Did you make the mashed potato yet?”
“No. Why?”
“Yes, fries.” My brother pumps his arm in celebration, adding another “boo-yah.”
“Don’t bother with the mashed potatoes. We will grab some burgers and fries to go with all of our other goodies. Sound good?”
“Doesn’t sound like Thanksgiving,” I mumble.
“But who isn’t grateful for burgers?” My husband asks, offering me another hug.
“And fries?” My brother grins as he shakes his head up and down excitedly.
I laugh as he begins to do his patented gratitude dance, reserved for any time he gets to eat like a glutton, particularly Thanksgiving Day. “Alright. Let’s show our gratitude with burgers and fries, but who is open on Thanksgiving?”
“It’s the funniest thing,” my husband releases me from the hug but leaves one arm draped over my shoulder, “but my favorite hole-in-the-wall burger joint happens to be run by Canadians…”
I stare at him uncomprehendingly.
“They celebrated Thanksgiving in October…”
I nod understanding and give him a big hug. “Well, let’s give thanks for Canada then. And your love of a random burger joint.”
And that is how we all celebrated how grateful we are with hamburgers and fries. And let’s be honest, my husband probably wants this to be a yearly tradition though I will take my turkey
~Don’t be caught off-guard, my friends. Check to see how many days your bird needs to thaw in the fridge and give it that many days (plus one if you seem to have my luck with half-frozen turkeys.) I already have my bird in my fridge. This year I will not find the neck still frozen to the inside of my bird. Oh who am I kidding, the turkey is my husband’s Thanksgiving task, so all future commentary on the bird should be attributed to his skills. I shall focus on planning a small feast for myself and my three housemates, who are picky. If you could send positive waves that this will be the year tiny hobbits like pie, I would appreciate it so much.~
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