Seven Settings
a Thanksgiving tale
She timed everything just right.
The turkey was superbly moist after being bathed for a day to plump, briny perfection. The stuffing equally so, half cooked in the bird, and half out for those who prefer a crusty top. The mounds of mashed potatoes were butter and cream-heavy, with nary a lump. Dad would have been proud.
She preferred to do kitchen work alone. Melodies of laughter and Tchaikovsky pirouetted through the air in musical accompaniment, as was tradition.
The green bean casserole had homemade french fried onions on top. The cranberries were simmered with orange rind and a touch of cinnamon. The rolls were fresh from the German bakery this morning, along with picture-perfect pumpkin and pecan pies to be served with a freshly whipped dollop of cream on top precisely after dinner, along with tea, or coffee with Bailey’s.
Her husband came in to see if he could help. She scooted him out with more wine, directions on what to ask the guests, and how to serve them while he pecked her on the cheek. They had danced this dance many times before.
The copper damask tablecloth from Grandma had been washed, ironed, and starched until it could have stood on its own. Every gold-rimmed goblet, glass, and piece of silverware had been meticulously wiped and adjusted beside seven antique floral china place settings. A black rosebud on every plate faced exactly twelve o’ clock in relation to each chair.
It was time.
Finally, she clasped her hands together and made the announcement.
“Dinnertime!”
Candles were lit. Water and wine were poured, as well as a round of milk for the kid’s table. Everyone made their way to their usual seats. Baxter the basset hound scurried beneath the kid’s table with high hopes of sloppy manners.
Her right hand reached back for apron strings and tugged one to loosen the bind. Pulling it over her head like she’d watched Grandma and her own Mom do hundreds of times, her eyes settled on the rolling pin, still laying on the counter from the cookies she’d rolled out earlier. The Holiday baking season had somehow crept all the way back to Thanksgiving. No matter.
She reminisced about how she loved seeing the children’s eyes sparkle when they spied red & green sugar cookies lining the snowman platter when she caught a glimpse of Mom in her window. A few stray locks had fallen from the usual bun she wore whenever she cooked.
She was smiling at her, and for once she felt like she had done all right.
“Honey, are you coming?”
“Yes, be right there,” she said, glancing down at her wrinkled hands. Still pretty and petite, just like hers were.
Everything was just right. Except for one thing.
She smiled back at the woman in the window while tucking the stray locks back into her bun.
“Love you, Ma. Happy Thanksgiving.”
