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Earlier, we had laid out the dining room table together: smoothed the
soft, pale green table cloth in place; sat the antique porcelain candleholders
at either end; placed the delicately flowered Czechoslovakian China, antique
silver and crystal goblets from his great grandmother, and, finally, sat our
high-backed, caned chair strategically around the table.
I’d arranged the side table flowers, put out the various platters and
bowls, and placed hot pads on the buffet.
Soon our guests would arrive bearing homemade pies and vegetable
side dishes.
Our stove, which looks like a 1920s range, has a very large cook top,
but a pretty small oven. Still, he found a way to squeeze in the extra pan of
dressing.
Our guests arrived all at once in a big, noisy crowd, each carrying a
platter, bowl or pie plate.
I sat their contributions on the serving tables and handed each a cup of
warm spiced cider. Then, as they all stood around the kitchen visiting and
laughing, I began to mash the potatoes.
Out of the corner of my eye I could see Al open the oven to check the
turkey again, and as he pulled out the large bird, the extra pan of dressing
he’d stuffed in, flew out. It landed with a loud clang, spilling stuffing like a
bridal veil across the kitchen floor.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll take care of it. Just concentrate on what
you’re doing.” And I quickly scooped up the pecans, cranberries and
breadcrumbs and tossed them in the garbage.
Al sat the fat, perfectly browned bird on the carving board. I spooned
steaming green beans into a serving dish. Another dish held a mountain of
mashed potatoes. Al was making gravy on the stove, stirring it steadily until
it thickened.
I started to place the dinner rolls he’d baked yesterday in a wicker
basket.
Al started carving the turkey, laying the thick, juicy slices of white
meat on platters.
Al opened the microwave and pulled out the wicker basket full of
dinner rolls. Flames more than five-inches high were leaping from it. He ran
for the sink.
“I can’t blow this out,” he said with an ‘Are you nuts?’ sound in his
voice.
Smoke filled the kitchen. The wicker basket and its cloth napkin fell
in great black ashes into the sink.
My arms full of rolls, I hurried to find another basket and pack them
in. That’s when I noticed our guests, huddled together near the patio door,
their eyes large and round, their mouths silently agape.
“Could you please open the door so we can air this out?” I asked.
“And maybe you could all go in the living room for a few minutes.”
Quickly our friends took their warm cider into the living room and
continued their lively conversations. And suddenly, the kitchen was empty
except for the smoky stench and the cold November air rushing in from the
patio.
Glancing up, his blue eyes held mine with a kind of serious
amusement.
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