I cried the first night we slept there, happy tears this time.
Jason held me on the floor between boxes and said, “Next Thanksgiving, we host.”
“I am,” he said. “I want everyone to see what we built.”
So we invited everyone for our first official Thanksgiving.
I made lists.
I watched videos. I planned the turkey down to the minute.
Thanksgiving morning, I was up at six. I started with pies—pumpkin and apple.
I made the crust from scratch because I wanted to prove something, maybe to Diane, maybe to myself.
Then I tackled the turkey. I rinsed it, patted it dry, mixed softened butter with garlic and herbs. I rubbed the butter under the skin, seasoned it, stuffed it with onion and lemon.
“Please don’t suck,” I told the turkey.
Jason shuffled in, hair messy. “Are you talking to the bird?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “We’re in a committed relationship now.”
He laughed, kissed my cheek, and said, “It already smells incredible.”
I made mashed potatoes with way too much butter, green beans with garlic, stuffing from real bread, gravy from the drippings.
I even made real cranberry sauce. It burbled on the stove, thick and jewel-red.
By noon, I was exhausted but proud. The turkey was golden and beautiful.
The kitchen smelled like every good memory I’d ever tried to build.
“Damn,” he said, staring. “There she is. The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
I smirked.Continue reading…
