I came across this very short story I wrote several years ago, and I thought I would share. Sometimes the Thanksgiving dinner doesn’t go as planned. Things happen. Enjoy this fun story. Happy Thanksgiving to you and your family!

            I picked the biggest Butterball turkey in the store. This was my year hosting the family Thanksgiving meal, and I would put to rest the notion that I was a terrible cook. Okay, so I usually order takeout, but that doesn’t mean I have zero culinary skills. Blame it on my busy life.

            Before I go any further, let me assure you there is no husband deprived of a home-cooked meal. No kids either. Just me and my two dogs, a German shepherd named Rowdy and a canine the size of a small pony of questionable lineage named Cheeto, after my favorite snack.  

            So how many were coming for dinner? My latest headcount sat at fourteen—give or take one, depending on whether my niece Brittany decided to bring her boyfriend. They’d had a fight, and as far as I knew, they hadn’t made up. I had my fingers crossed it would last through Turkey Day. Jason, with a perpetual frown, resembled a stick figure with wild hair. I’d only heard him speak once, but it wasn’t even a full sentence. I still have no idea what he said.

            On Thanksgiving morning, I got up early, ready to take charge like a woman who absolutely did not Google “how to cook a turkey” the night before. I hauled the bird out of the refrigerator, plopped it into the roasting pan, and immediately discovered there was…stuff inside. Mysterious, icky stuff. Inners or giblets, I guess. Anyway, it was gross, and I set it aside and began rubbing olive oil all over the turkey’s skin. I pictured this poor bird happily trotting around a farm a few days ago, minding his own business, and now I prepared to turn him into dinner. The thought almost made me consider becoming a vegan—almost.

            The Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade, or should I say, the two-hour advertisement for Broadway musicals and NBC television shows, kept me entertained. I turned up the volume so I could hear it from the kitchen. While I danced and whipped potatoes to the music of “Jingle Bell Rock,” Rowdy observed me with his head cocked to one side like he was watching a crazy person. Cheeto was determined to stay underfoot. I stepped on him three times, but he never learned his lesson. I told him he was as dumb as a rock, but he wagged his tail as if I had given him a compliment.

            Gramps and Grandy were the first to arrive. They immediately offered to help, then stopped short to admire the dining room. I had actually managed to pull off a beautiful table—pumpkin-and-candle centerpiece, the good china, crystal goblets. The works. They looked at me with amazement, as if they couldn’t believe their granddaughter had turned into a domestic goddess.

            My parents came next. Ten minutes later, my sisters, brothers-in-law, nieces, and nephews arrived like a tornado touching ground. The whirlwind of activity in the kitchen made me dizzy. I ordered everyone out.

            “Are you sure you have everything under control?” My sister tried to peek in at the turkey, but I stopped her and pulled her away.

“Meg. I’ve got this. Everything is fine. Go into the den and relax.”

            I liked to brag to her and my older sister Allison that I have two ovens, something they could not claim. I realize it’s odd since I don’t cook, but it was included in the house when I bought it. The turkey was in the bottom oven and the broccoli casserole, dressing, and sweet potato casserole in the other. My mother—bless her heart—brought cranberry-orange relish. I would have made it myself, but she won’t give anyone her secret recipe.

            Before I set the prepared dishes on the table, I made a big deal of making everyone stand behind their chairs and say something for which they were thankful. I got some silent stares and eyerolls, but I told them there would be no dinner until everyone had said something.

            Meg’s kids went first, proudly announcing they were thankful for video games and not having school. My parents and grandparents chimed in with the usual—family, good health, blah blah, heartfelt stuff. My sisters were thankful they didn’t have to cook. My two brothers-in-law gave a synchronized nod to the TV and said they were grateful for an entire afternoon of football and zero emotional responsibility. From Jason’s mumble and his gaze at Brittany, I gathered he said he was thankful for her. Then it was my turn to speak. My mind went blank. I had to be thankful for something. And then, it came to me, and I said, “I’m thankful I could provide a wonderful, delicious dinner for my family.”

            I went to take the dishes from the kitchen to the dining room table. At last, I was going to end the teasing about my cooking skills, or lack thereof. Before dessert was served (Allison had brought pumpkin pie), they’d be tripping over themselves with compliments, and maybe apologies for doubting my ability.

            I could practically taste their anticipation as their small talk drifted into the kitchen—little snippets of “smells amazing” and “can’t wait to dig in.” Then they heard my scream. Actually, scratch that. The entire neighborhood heard my scream.

            Within seconds, everyone barreled into the kitchen, only to find me standing there, horrified, teary-eyed, and pointing at what used to be our meal. Rowdy and Cheeto had their paws planted on the table like they owned the place, scoffing down every dish and tearing the turkey carcass clean in half. Nothing was spared. Not the rolls. Not the sides. Not the pie. Besides being caught in the act, food particles stuck in their fur provided clear evidence of their misdeeds. I guess you could say it was a tragic, messy crime scene, or am I being overly dramatic?

            And that’s why when it was my turn to host the annual holiday, we had hamburgers for Thanksgiving, along with cranberry-orange relish. It turned out I was actually thankful McDonald’s was open that day.     

The post Turkey Day appeared first on Author Susan Mills Wilson.