“Okay, Mama Bear. I’ll wait.” He wanders to the cookie jar, retrieving one of the almond apricot biscotti I filled it with yesterday.
“Brad, seriously? Dinner is in less than an hour and a half, and you already ate your weight in cookies this morning. Don’t think I didn’t notice,” Shelby says to him, laughing. Brad has a hollow leg. I have no idea where he puts it, but his hunger is constant. I’d kill for his metabolism. Doesn’t matter how much he eats, how active he is or isn’t, he stays the same weight. Not thin like Shelby, but never more than the littlest bit poochy in the middle.
“Hey, Chef, I’m ready for work!” Ian says, heading straight to the sink to scrub his hands in the simple, unconscious habit of a real chef.
“Glad to hear it. I’ve got a list for you.” I made Ian his very own time and action plan. He is going to be in charge of some of the last-minute stuff, making the gravy, for starters, as well as turkey carving, which we’ve been practicing on chickens for the last few weeks. Shelby has requested a brief poultry moratorium for the foreseeable future as a result, but the kid is great with the knife and I have total faith that he will get the bird to the table in good form.
Ian and I go over the details, and then I have him grab the rest of his siblings for roll time. Every year we do this together, the kids and me, shaping the soft yeast dough into rolls. The kids each get their own sheet pan and lump of dough, and they can make whatever shapes they like and top them with anything from sesame seeds to toasted pumpkin seeds to little bits of onion. I’ve got their trays all set up on the kitchen table, along with individual bowls of egg wash, and the center of the table has bowls of possible toppings. It’s always been my little parting gift to Shelby and Brad: I keep the kids fairly well occupied for about a half hour so that the two of them can sit and have a glass of wine and some peace after their hectic morning before I leave them to a weekend full of activity.
“Hey, El,” Robbie says, Geneva pulling his arm practically out of his socket. “Happy Thanksgiving.”
“Yeah, happy Thanksgiving, Eloise,” Darcy says.
I pull the soft, pillowy dough out of the warming drawer where it was proofing and cut it into four equal portions. I’ll help Geneva with hers while the rest work on theirs. We cut and shape the dough, each pan reflecting the maker. Darcy’s are all fanciful, intricately braided designs with meticulous application of toppings. Robbie’s are rustic, essentially just random lumps of dough, indifferently egg-washed, and sprinkled with whatever toppings are nearest to hand. Ian’s are perfect and chefly, rolled under his small hands to identical taut spheres, the toppings blended for flavor: fennel seed and onion; poppy seed and lemon zest; pumpkin seed and Espelette pepper. Geneva and I make flowers and butterflies and other artistic applications of dough, using the toppings like colors in a palette. We get the trays in the oven to bake, and Shelby sends the kids downstairs to play. Ian sets his phone with a timer to let him know when he needs to come upstairs to get his list started. I go over what is left to do with Shelby as I pack up one of the now-cooled apple pies into my pie carrier.
“I can’t believe you have to go home and do this all over again,” Shelby says, shaking her head. “It must be exhausting.”
“I love it. Besides, everything is pretty much prepped over at my mom’s house; most of it just needs reheating. I’ll put the turkey in as soon as I get there, and then we’ll relax and have cocktails till dinnertime.” It’s true—even our gravy is made ahead, since for my family I do Julia Child’s deconstructed turkey recipe, which cooks in pieces on top of the stuffing, so it cooks quickly and evenly and makes the stuffing dense and moist. But because of that, there are no pan juices, so I made the gravy earlier this week from some extra wings and the giblets. There is very little to do for tonight beyond reheating and carving the turkey once it is done.
“Better you than me!” Shelby says. “But it does sound nice, a small quiet dinner. A nice long weekend.”
Always funny how the grass is greener. I’m so envious of Shelby’s brood, of the long table set today for this family, including both Brad’s and Shelby’s folks, who will be coming in soon. Jealous of the potluck party they will have tomorrow with Brad’s sister and her family, and some close friends. A big house full of happy people eating well and sharing stories. And she envies my simple quiet dinner, and the rest of my weekend, which she and Brad always insist on my taking off, full of long days with no responsibilities.
“Well, you should be all set for the weekend. I’ve got plenty of snacks and stuff laid in for you, Ian has a bunch of recipes for repurposing leftovers when you get sick of turkey sandwiches if he wants to play in the kitchen, and I’ve got all of Brad’s Sunday supplies in the second fridge.” Brad does a big breakfast for his family on Thanksgiving Sunday: eggs and pancakes and bacon and sausages and hash browns.
“You’re the best.”
I pull the trays of rolls out of the oven and set them on racks to cool on the island. Shelby laughs when she sees them.
“They are really their own people, my kids.”
“Yep. Certainly are.”
“Okay, well, you’ve done enough for a holiday, I’m officially kicking you out. Go home. Be with your family.”
“Thanks, Shelby. You guys have a terrific weekend, and I’ll see you on Monday.”
“You too, El. And just know, we are very thankful for you.” Her generosity of spirit is always deeply touching and makes me smile. She reaches up to hug me, and I hug her back.
“I’m thankful for you guys too,” I whisper into her hair.
? ? ?
Stop, I can’t . . .” Aunt Claire says, pushing her plate toward me for another sliver of pie.
“Claire, you cannot bitch about this tomorrow,” my mom says, reaching for a divinity cookie, one of Claire’s specialties, a light meringue cookie filled with mini chocolate chips and walnut pieces.
“I don’t bitch,” Claire says, dolloping a generous spoonful of vanilla whipped cream on her second helping of pie.
My mom rolls her eyes and starts whining in a mockery of Claire’s low voice. “Oh, Hollis, I’m just so bloated, and you cannot imagine what the scale said this morning . . .”
Claire puts a huge piece of pie in her mouth and then opens it to show my mom.
“Girls, do I have to separate you?” I say, their antics getting more ridiculous than usual after indulging in Lynne’s glorious old Riesling all night, not to mention the predinner Boulevardier cocktails, and now a lovely Madeira with the desserts. They’re both hummingly buzzy.