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. « I need this win. »
Jason shuffled in, hair messy. « Are you talking to the bird? » he asked.
I even made real cranberry sauce.
« 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.
Jason came back from a quick work shift just as I was basting the turkey again.
« Damn, » he said, staring. « There she is. The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. »
