I’m thankful for the chance to try not to ruin a turkey myself this year. Gabe swears he’s helped his mom roast one in the past, and it’s not as hard as people make it out to be. Last night I went over to Zelda’s and watched him brine the bird.
He claims it “infuses the white meat with flavor and juiciness.” I have no clue if it works or not, but I can’t stand dry turkey, so I’m hopeful I’ll be thankful about that, too. Truthfully, I have much to be grateful for. Friends. Relationships. A decent home.
Good grades. A brilliant basketball team to be part of. Coach Booker says we’ll kill the league this year, and she could be right.
We’re hard-core, even without Hillary, who’ll have to sit the season out.
And, hey, I’ve got a car. Dad decided to let me keep it, though he still hasn’t agreed to take me in for the driving test that’ll net the coveted license. With me behind the wheel of the Focus this morning, I figure I’ll give him a nudge. “So, Dad.
I was thinking. Basketball season
starts soon. With practices and games, transportation could be a problem.
I thought maybe one day
next week we could meet at the DMV
after school and work. Coach’ll let me take off a little early if I give her a heads-up. I’ll make the appointment.”
He Grunts
Which is his way of saying
he’s considering it, and
that’s better than a straight no, so I nudge, “California is strict about teen drivers, and I can’t drive with any of my friends in the car for a year, you won’t have to
worry about me doing bad
things, especially since if I do I’ll lose my license
until I turn eighteen, and—”
Okay, I get it. It’s just, kids die in accidents all the time.
If I lost you it would kill me, too.
Is that what he’s worried
about? “Oh, Dad. I’ll be very careful. I promise. Please?”
Best I can give you right now is a definite maybe.
Still better than a straight no.
At Zelda’s
Gabe and I go directly to work
in the kitchen while the so-called adults disappear, ostensibly to watch at least most of the Macy’s Parade. If that’s really what they’re up to, it’s a definite first for Dad.
Has Zelda domesticated the man?
Gabe attempts to domesticate
me, giving instructions on how
much celery and onion to chop
and sauté for the stuffing while he rinses the turkey and pats
it dry so the skin will crisp.
His expertise soon becomes evident.
“You’ll make some woman
a very good wife,” I kid. “In fact, will you marry me? I could use one of those.” That was totally off
the wall, and he wastes little time pouncing on the obvious.
Thought you wanted a female wife.
I absorb the remark, consider its implications. Rather than respond right away, I watch Gabe lift the stuffed, trussed bird into the oven, admiring both his culinary talent and the muscle required to heft eighteen pounds of poultry.
“I’m not interested in matrimony.”
I realize there’s truth in the statement.
With the rare exception of Monica’s parents, I’ve never seen marriage work.
I’ve witnessed divorce. Widowhood.
Spinsterhood. Remarriage, and failure repeated. Oh, and of course, desertion.
“Anyway, what if you flip me straight?”
That almost sounds like a challenge, doesn’t it? Not surprisingly, he takes it that way, and I appreciate that.
He crosses the kitchen in two long strides, pulls me into his arms, kisses me in a decisively masculine way.
I’m willing to give it a try if you are.
We’ve Been Borderline
A time or two, but still
haven’t gone all the way, mostly because I’m scared.
Scared it will hurt.
Scared it will define me.
Scared I might like it too much.
Pressed tightly together, heart rates rising in sync, I can feel him grow rigid against me and it would be a lie if I said it didn’t excite me, and in a completely
different way than Monica did. If we were somewhere private, I’d give him the chance, despite my trepidation, to try and flip me right this minute.
But that isn’t the case, so we cool things off, mutually satisfied that a wordless promise was just exchanged between the two of us.
For Now
We pour eggnogs, discuss
spiking them, decide to wait until later for alcohol, if we choose to imbibe at all.
We carry drinks into the living room, which is empty except for the giant balloons floating along a New York City avenue twenty-five hundred miles away, yet visible right here in California, thanks to technology. We sit to watch the end of the parade and eventually Dad and Zelda escape her bedroom, and head outside for a smoke. I’m not sure if it’s Gabe’s regular presence here or mine once in a while, but Zelda’s house never seems to wear the intolerable scent of tobacco.
She’s a polite smoker by choice.
Eggnog, huh? Dad stops on the way by, lifts my glass, and sniffs. It’s no good without booze.
Pretty sure I’m glad it’s virgin.
Apparently Brining Works
Because the turkey is juicy
and flavorful, and the stuffing absorbs much deliciousness.
I skip the mashed potatoes,
reach instead for yams, not
candied but simply baked
and dripping melted butter.
“This is the most I’ve ever