This year Thanksgiving came early. At least it did for the Jackson family. With the kids all grown up and saddled with spouses and boyfriends and kids, finding five hours where everybody was available at the same time turned out to be like drawing up the regular-season schedule for the NHL. Complicated, in other words.
“Who’s complaining?” said Jennifer as she set down a stack of plates and began to distribute them around the dining room table. “Having Thanksgiving dinner the week before Thanksgiving just means we get it two weekends in a row. I can think of worse things.”
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“No kidding,” Jackie agreed as she counted out silverware. “Like cooking Thanksgiving dinner two weekends in a row. That would be worse.”
“That would definitely be worse.” Rose opened the oven door to reveal the golden-brown turkey inside. A mouthwatering aroma wafted out into the room. “There’s a reason we only celebrate Thanksgiving once a year. Because if we celebrated it more often the cooks would stop being thankful.”
“You love cooking Thanksgiving dinner Mom,” said Jennifer. “You complain about it but you love it.”
“Complaining is half the fun,” said Rose, laughing. “Plus I have to make sure everybody knows how I’ve slaved over a hot stove to make it happen. So they’ll be properly grateful.” She closed the oven door. Andrew honey,” she called out in the direction of the sunroom. “There’s work to be done in the kitchen!”
“I’ll be right there!” Andrew’s voice sounded like an echo from the back of the house. “It’ll just take me a minute to walk with these things growing on my legs!” There was the sound of little children giggling and a moment later Andrew appeared in the doorway, stomping slowly along with a child firmly attached to each leg.
“Grandpa can’t get away,” little Allison giggled. “We’re attached to him!”
“We’re all attached to Grandpa!” Jennifer laughed. “But not to his ankles like you are!”
“Giddy-up Grandpa,” said Andy from the other leg.
“We have reached our destination, children,” said Andrew. “The turkey-carving station destination. Detach yourselves my little munchkins so I can get the turkey out of the oven. It’s hot.”
Rose bent down to pick up Andrew and Jennifer reached for Allison. The children happily let go of their grandfather and allowed themselves to be carried a safe distance from the oven door. Andy watched as the turkey was lifted out of the oven and placed on the cutting board. He pointed at it with a flourish.
“Big bird,” he said.
“You could say that,” said Rose, “although some little ‘Sesame Street’ fans might be appalled to hear it.”
“Who’s in charge of mashing the potatoes?” Jackie wanted to know, as she lifted the lid of the largest pot on the stove and peered inside. “I do believe they’re ready.”
“I’ll do the potatoes,” said Brady appearing in the doorway as he spoke. “Although this kitchen appears to be overrun with cooks at the moment.
“We can make room,” said Rose. “No problem.”
“I’m gonna need a few things,” said Brady. “A little garlic. Some onion flakes. Cream. Butter. Pepper. Dried parsley. And maple-smoked cheddar cheese. Bothwell if you have it, but Applewood will do.”
There was a moment of silence while everybody stared at him.
“Who do you think you are?” asked Rose. “Emeril Lagasse?”
“Julia Child,” said Brady. “More butter and cream please. I’m like the Stephen Harper of potato mashing. If you put me in charge you won’t recognize the potatoes by the time I’m through with them.”
“Now hold on there,” said Andrew, laying a neat stack of perfect turkey breast slices onto the serving plate. “I didn’t vote for you, young man. And I won’t, not if you’re going to turn a perfectly good potful of delicious potatoes into some highfalutin Food Network goulash! Potatoes have a single purpose lad, to form a receptacle for, and not mess with the flavour of, the gravy. Have I taught you nothing, my boy?”
“Nothing at all, oh master of pork and beans,” said Brady. “Everything I know I learned from the Iron Chef. Please pass the parsley. These potatoes are going to be spectacular.”
Andrew sighed. “I can tell you what will make this a good Thanksgiving,” he said.
“What’s that Dad?” asked Jennifer.
“It’ll be a good Thanksgiving,” said Andrew, “if the potatoes are edible.”
Brady handed his father a fork with a bit of mashed potato on top. “In that case, Happy Thanksgiving,” he said.
Andrew savoured the mouthful for a moment, then broke into a smile. “Happy Thanksgiving indeed,” he replied.
