She was… stunning. He was very much aware that his mother sitting one room over had brought him up better than to stare, but something about her caused acute amnesia in the part of his brain responsible for movement. The fluorescent light struck her golden skin in ways he’d never thought possible, drawing sheepishly longing gazes from all corners of the room. Averted eyes snuck swift glances at her titillating form— long, smooth thighs; plump, rounded breasts; and soft, juicy wings.
Today marked his first Thanksgiving as head chef for the family, and he had prepared nothing shy of the perfect turkey. He slipped off his mitts, hanging them from the oven door like a boxer after a winning fight, and called in the others with a triumphant bellow.
The kids came darting in first, followed shortly by their older cousins, aunts, and uncles, with the grandparents and in-laws bringing up the rear. He had gone all out this year in an attempt to both display his finer talents and to solidify his and Marie’s place as the coveted Thanksgiving-dinner home (as opposed to their usual role as the less-than-envied Independence day demolition site).
He had pulled out all the stops: a fruit salad displayed in the hollowed-out basket of a watermelon; no less than three distinct types of casserole; cranberry sauce procured not from a can, but from real, sincere cranberries; and an impeccably unexceptional stuffing, perfected over the span of five weeks in an attempt to impress with its effortlessness.
Yes, he had done it. As he glanced around at cleaned plates, smiled through unbuttoned-pant jokes, and politely deflected post-dinner compliments, he knew he had accomplished exactly what he set out to do.
He tried his best to subdue his smug smile as he turned to the family’s lame duck hosts, only to find his smugness mirrored back. “Dinner was delicious, Bob,” the seemingly harmless words striking his ears like bullets being loaded. “We can’t wait to see what you have for…”
The word hit him sharply, and with the quick intake of air came a quick influx of memories. Memories of grocery bags full of pumpkin puree, pantries stacked with cinnamons and nutmegs and cloves, sticky notes on fridges reminding him not to forget dessert this time.
And yet. Just like last years attempt for Easter, he had forgotten the finale of their feast. The remainder of his smile was now dissipating as his loved ones woke from their food comas to the heartbreaking news that there was no pie this year. “It’s okay, Bob” he heard through the sea of disappointed sighs and feigned reassurances. “You’ll always have Independence Day.”
