Jill & The Frozen Turkey
Jill awoke startled, as if from a nightmare. It was quarter past five in the morning and her snoring husband rolled onto his belly and let loose a horrifying fart. Horace, their basset hound, raised his head and looked up at Jill with a sleepy sideways glance. She yawned and searched for her slippers under the bed.
“Back to bed, you,” she whispered.
Horace shook his head and his ears flapped and the dog tag jingled. He yawned in return, and slowly closed his eyes.
Tiptoeing out of the bedroom, Jill stopped for a quick pee on her way into the kitchen. Before turning on the lights, she peered through the blinds and looked at the glowing row of streetlights that resembled tiny orange halos in the morning abyss. She caught a glimpse of light from the kitchen of Mrs. Reynolds, who she knew would be preparing a meal for a dozen grandkids.
The thought made Jill shudder. After turning on her own kitchen lights, she made straight for the coffee machine and watched with patient glee as the blackbrown liquid percolated through the filter and dripped into her waiting cup. She drank with satisfication, knowing this would be one of the only peaceful moments she’d have to herself today.
Timmy, she felt sure, would sleep until ten or so, and then her sister and Phil and their kids would show up around noon. Jill had promised dinner would be ready by two so that the boys could watch the Lions game and then nap. She stayed up late the night before baking pumpkin pies and had them chilling out in the garage. Hopefully that damn raccoon hadn’t found a way inside.
She pre-heated the oven and went to the cupboard to remove the ten pound sack of spuds she’d need to peel. The checklist of things to do was enormous: stuffing, mashed potatoes, sweet potato casserole, green bean casserole, cranberry sauce, the marshmallow fruit salad that Timmy loved the best. It would all take hours of preparation, of meticulous timing, of utter thanklessness, on this day of days.
But, first things first, the turkey. That heavy Butterball bastard. She’d asked Richard to put it in the sink for her the day before. A panic gripped her throat when she realized it wasn’t there. She said a little prayer, an incantation really of “please, please be in the fridge” as she opened the door and saw all the shelves were full, but no turkey.
“Potluck!” she muttered under her breath when she didn’t want to curse. The screen door to the garage mewled and creaked as she opened it to investigate the freezer. Sure enough, Richard didn’t do the one thing she had asked of him. Jill’s breath crystalized in the chilly morning air. Her sciatica flared as she bent forward to extract the rock solid turkey from his perch.
Dinner would be postponed by at least two or three hours. There was nothing to be done. Jill carried the bird inside and let the screen door slam, even if Richard would continue sleeping right through the noise.
She ran a lukewarm bath in the sink and submerged the turkey, whom she’d decided to name Harold. Meanwhile, she started peeling the potatoes and boiling water. Horace snuck into the kitchen at the first sound of food. She wrote a little post-it note to remember to send her sister a text later about bringing more wine. It was Thanksgiving, after all, and surely they’d need it.
Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! My apologies for recycling last year’s story. I wanted to write a new one but don’t have the requisite time and/or energy to make it happen. Which means I must double my efforts for December. Cheers.
