“I suppose I’ll get the sushi, see if it’s as good as I make.” Crap. Now he’s ruined the sushi for me. New plan.
“I’m getting the butternut squash ravioli. It sounds really good.”
“It does look interesting,” he says and turns over the menu to read the description. “I’m not crazy about balsamic vinegar.”
The server returns with espresso in a proper cup and a coaster, and we order. Sam displays more annoying habits by asking about every single sushi roll, whether she’s sure the seafood is fresh, if the chef has any special qualifications, and if she prefers spider rolls to California rolls. He’s testing our poor server. He catches her in an inaccurate description and hounds her about knowing the menu. She nods and smiles, bearing the verbal assault. I’m mortified but can’t stop his ramblings. He lets her escape only to extol her many faults and incompetence. He finally decides to ask me a question that has nothing to do with the service industry’s numerous problems.
“You have a cat, right?”
“Yes. Prospero is six years old.”
“I love cats! They make such good companions. I have four: Milo, Gertie, Sunny, and Josie. They’re great pets but even better friends.” The girls failed to tell me that Sam was a male crazy cat lady. I didn’t know those existed. Fascinating, also troubling. If he lived in the country I might understand, but he lives in the city and must have a small house or apartment. That’s a lot of cat litter. “I don’t mean they’re my only friends,” he says, as if brushing away that insane thought. “I play online games with my buddies on the weekends and sometimes we enter tournaments.” He’s an online gamer. I hate you ladies. No really. I hate you all. You must secretly want to destroy me.
“That’s interesting.”
“Really?” he beams. “No girl has ever found online gaming interesting. This is a perfect match!” Right. I thought people hid the crazy parts of themselves on first dates. Did I mention that I have severe commitment issues and was on a three-year dating hiatus until recently? No, I kept that to myself. Some things are not appropriate for first dates…like talking about how you taught three of your cats to use the toilet only to fail with the fourth.
I drink my wine and wait for the food. If I can get through lunch, I’ll be fine. I’d leave now but I hate to hurt people’s feelings, even if they’re idiots. Maybe I can stop at DSW before I go home. Retail therapy is much cheaper than real therapy, and I get cute shoes. My mind wanders because Sam stops talking and waves a hand in front of my eyes. “What are you thinking about?”
“What?”
“You went somewhere else for a second. Thinking about something more fascinating than me?” He says this in a confident manner, as if there could be nothing more intriguing than him and his mythical battlefields and household feline antics.
“Something from work. I just finished editing a romance novel and found it so dull that I took ages to finish.”
“Work can be hard. I run the IT desk for this company downtown. They sell software and computer parts to law firms and hospitals. It gets pretty hectic, but the hours are nice, and I get a hefty vacation pay.”
The food arrives before he can describe his vacation extravaganzas, and his attention is diverted to the sushi. It looks beautiful, and as I look at the pile of odd-smelling gunk on my squash ravioli, I wish I’d chosen differently. I don’t recall the menu featuring this little tidbit. The ravioli is very good, but I hate the mix of root vegetables and whatever else is on top. I smell balsamic vinegar, but the taste is lost in a sea of conflicting flavors. I usually enjoy peculiar food, but there’s something off with the flavor profile, and the wine doesn’t compliment it at all. Sam registers my distaste and asks, “Don’t you like it?”
“It’s fine,” I lie and shove more in my mouth, grimacing.
“It looks terrible. Let me get the waitress over here.”
“Server.”
Our server appears in an instant, noticing Sam peering over the booth’s top like a prairie dog searching for predators. “How’s everything tasting?”
“Awful,” he says and shakes his finger at her. “Cassandra’s ravioli looks like vomit, and my sushi is not well-prepared. The rolls fell apart the moment I touched them.” He’s not wrong about my dish, but his sushi looks fine. What the hell is he acting so belligerent for?
“I can order something else. May I see the sushi menu, please?”
“No, this is abysmal. The food and the service are lacking for sure.” He glares at the server and says, “I’d like to see your manager.” She doesn’t attempt to reason with Sam, abruptly about-faces, and races for the kitchen. I hope she’s seasoned enough not to let this douchebag get to her. I grab for my purse and fish out some money. Laying thirty dollars on the table, I stand and grab my coat. Enough is enough.
“It was very horrible to meet you. I can’t believe you were so rude.” He gapes at me like a freak show gawker, his mouth an endless black cave. As I pause to put my coat on, he stutters, “Where are you going? Don’t you want something else?”
“Not with you. That poor girl doesn’t deserve to be treated like that, but you certainly do.” I shove my arms into the jacket sleeves and whirl away from him. “Maybe you should take some human being lessons before hoisting yourself on the innocent population.” I turn back and grab the money. “You’d probably stiff the girl.” I leave him stammering and search out our server. She emerges from the kitchen with her gargantuan manager in tow. I hand her the money, say it’s her tip, and tell her that my “date” will cover the tab.
“Thank you,” she says and smirks. “Please come back soon. Preferably not with that guy. He smells like old cheese.”
“No problem.”
Thanksgiving. The time when family gathers and celebrates the year’s bounty. When mothers, fathers, and children come together and cook and bake pies and laugh and tell stories. That magical day when football and food rule all…at least if your parents aren’t divorced and you have to split holidays, so they don’t see each other and feel awkward. Welcome to the traditional American Thanksgiving, starring…my family!
“I can’t believe they set me up with someone like that!” I grab the steaming bowl of potatoes from Joel’s hands and mash the hell out of them. “And why does Mom insist on mashing her own potatoes? Instant are just fine.”
It’s a few hours before our annual Thanksgiving Day meal, and my brother Joel is tired from his late flight. His girlfriend Gisele was so exhausted that she’s braving Mom’s bed for a nap. She looks like a model, but Joel insists that she’s a vet tech. Vet tech my ass. There’s no way someone could afford real Gucci on that kind of salary. Easy, Cassie. Fashion envy will get you nowhere.
“Mom knows I like the whole experience,” he says.
“Is that why we’re having three kinds of potatoes?” I growl and mash faster. Seriously, who needs sweet, mashed, and scalloped potatoes for one meal? “Last year we got by with baked. Heaven forbid we only have one tuber for Thanksgiving.”
“Last year I wasn’t in charge of the menu. Mom emailed me and wanted to know what I preferred. Since I couldn’t decide she got fixings for all three!” He goes to the oven to check the marshmallows on the sweet potatoes. “Dad would never do that.”
“I wish you’d get off Dad’s back for one second. He tries really hard to make Christmas nice for you.”
“Yeah…I won’t be coming for Christmas this year.”
“What?” I spin around, and some mashed potatoes fall on the floor. “What do you mean you can’t make Christmas?”
He doesn’t even look contrite. Joel has this sheepish face most of the time, like you’ve recently caught him putting salt in the sugar bowl or noticed he’s been wearing the same shirt for a week, but now he looks at ease.
“I have to work. It’s no big deal. I’ll call him or something.”
“You’re not serious?”
“Why shouldn’t I be? I hate Christmas anyway.” Now there’s the surly
, juvenile brother I know. “Dad won’t miss me. He never calls me either.” I hate that excuse. The phone works both ways. Well duh, but stop whining, pick up the damn phone, and call your father. If I call Mom every day, then he can make the effort to talk to Dad.
“You know Dad’s not that proactive. Can’t you just give him the benefit of the doubt?”
“It’s easy for you, you live here.”
“It’s not my fault you moved to California.”
“And it’s not my fault you stayed here.” He closes the oven door, and I slam the mashed potatoes on the counter, sending more flying.
“Those stupid potatoes are on broil!” I open the oven a fraction. “Otherwise the marshmallows will be ruined. Aren’t you supposed to be a chef?” He throws his hands up and leaves the kitchen muttering about when Mom will get home and how I’m Genghis Khan. He pisses me off. It wasn’t Dad’s fault that he and Mom got divorced.
The apartment door bursts open and Mom yells, “Someone help me! The eggs!” She hauls five paper grocery bags, and a plastic one in her teeth. How did she enunciate with that in her mouth? I grab the bags in her left hand, and she takes the plastic one from her lips. A tiny piece of plastic rests on her tongue, and she tries to spit it out, gagging dramatically. “Those cashiers are trying to kill me! All the heavy things are in one bag!”
“What’s the world coming too?”
“Don’t get sassy with me. It’s Thanksgiving.” She drops the last two bags in the entryway and leans forward. “Where’s your brother? Still sleeping, the poor angel?”
“He pitched a hissy fit about marshmallows and retreated to the bedroom.”
She looks at me with concern and says, “He’s had a long flight and a terrible week at work.”
How is it that our parents can reduce us to toddlers in mere seconds? I feel bad for ridiculing Joel’s numerous potatoes. “He’ll be fine. What did you buy now?”
“Just cranberries, stuff for deviled eggs—you know that Gisele likes them?—and a few other odds and ends.”
“Toilet paper?” I ask and pluck a small four pack from one bag.
“There’s a man in the house, dear.” As if that explains everything. Must we prep the place as if a king were gracing us? “Let him sleep awhile. We can take care of dinner.”
“I cannot cook, Mom.”
“I’m not asking you to,” she snaps and marches into the kitchen. “All I ask is that you set the table and check how things are coming along. And get out the good plates. No not those! The other good plates!”
“Is there anything I can do?” comes a tiny voice from the hallway. Gisele stands awkwardly with her toothbrush in one hand and an old iPod in the other. She’s even breath-taking after a nap! Short blond hair and a long neck make her look taller than she is, and her tan legs stand out like crazy against white cotton shorts. Doesn’t she know it’s winter here?
“Oh no, my dear!” says Mom. “Just make yourself comfortable. Cassie and I will take care of everything. Do you need something warmer to wear?”
“I brought some sweaters,” she admits and peers down at her ensemble in fear. “I’ve never been somewhere this cold in the winter.” It’s an innate Minnesotan ability to simultaneously despise and envy the warm-weather people. I want to chide her about being a big wuss but secretly wish I were somewhere warmer for winter. Still, what a crybaby. I’ll bet she’s never had goose bumps before either.
“You’d better change, dear,” says Mom. “It’s supposed to be a cold one.” Mom could keep the apartment a bit warmer. It’s sixty degrees in here, and with the wind it feels colder, whether you’re inside or not. One of the other reasons to love the Midwest: in winter you’ll never be warm, just accept it and move on with your life.
“I’ll bet you’re wondering how people can stand to live here,” I say, fighting the shivers that want to jolt through my body. Must not show weakness to the outsider.
“It seems okay,” she answers, blushing. She blushes a lot. The pretty, shy types are what my little brother goes for. He hasn’t changed since junior high. Do all men secretly prefer the silent librarian-esque girls? I hope not, because there is no way I’d wear those chunky glasses. “I was hoping to see snow, though…” she trails off and looks out the living room window.
“It will snow soon enough,” says Mom as she bustles around in the fridge. “Cassie! Get over here and help your mother!”
I smile at Gisele, hoping it appears genuine, and turn to assist Mom with a gargantuan bag of brussels sprouts. “What the hell are these for?”
“Language!” She tips the bag into my hands and pulls more ingredients from the chilled compartments. “I thought we could have a nice, new dinner this year. Try some recipes.”
“Besides the three kinds of potatoes?”
“Don’t be snippy. Your brother doesn’t make it home very often.” She has a large package of ground beef in her hands, and I can’t help but notice it’s not turkey.
“That doesn’t look very traditional.”
“You’re so closed-minded.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Sometimes I can’t believe you’re my daughter. Where’s your sense of adventure?”
“Mom,” I say, looking at the odd food assortment on the counter, “I don’t think Magellan would have considered spaghetti and meatballs adventurous.”
“What does Magellan have to do with Thanksgiving?”
“Never mind. What else are you making?”
“Cranberries done Norwegian style—”
“Which is?”
But she ignores me and continues, “Couscous with mushrooms and sun-dried tomatoes, a strawberry frisee salad with a citrus vinaigrette, and for dessert—”
“Please say pumpkin pie.”
“This thing your old babysitter told me about…flan!”
“Flan?” I sigh. What about pumpkin pie? That’s my favorite Thanksgiving food. Joel gets three potatoes and I get flan?
“Yes! It’s a custard from Mexico.” She says Mexico as if it were some magical far off place we could only dream of visiting. I probably shouldn’t tell her that my high school Spanish teacher made flan for our entire class junior year. I didn’t care for it then, and I doubt I’ll like it now. “And there’s a caramel sauce to go with it!” Oh Mom. What could have possessed you to become a gourmand so late in life? This must be her boyfriend’s doing. At least he won’t be joining us for dinner. His other family takes precedence. I was looking forward to a traditional Thanksgiving dinner. Maybe I should have gone to Alicia’s house instead. I can smell her stuffing wafting through the vents.
“Did you at least make Grandpa’s stuffing?”
“It’s called dressing, Cassie, and no, I’m making these other wonderful things. We won’t need the dressing.”
“What’s dressing?” asks Gisele. I’m surprised she’s still listening to us.
Before I spit the acidic comeback on my lips, Joel saunters from the bedroom and drapes an arm across Gisele’s narrow shoulders. “It’s the stuffing that comes out of the turkey, babe.”
“Oh,” she says, confused as a cat on a bicycle. “We never have turkey on Thanksgiving.”
“What do you have, pray tell?” I ask, and Joel gives me a look.
“We usually order takeout,” she says, a reminiscing gleam in her eyes. “I love Indian and Chinese.”
“Right,” I say and smirk at Joel. What a catch, little brother. I wonder at male dating expertise and reconsider why I’m single.
It doesn’t take long for spaghetti to cook, so we’re ready to sit down by late afternoon. I set the table then Mom rearranges everything in a more elegant fashion. Gone are my festive orange and brown napkins with leaf designs, replaced by linen napkins. She also takes the centerpiece I made in fifth grade (a cornucopia filled with seasonal plastic fruit) and brings out her own creation: an elaborate combination of candles, fake leaves and flowers that smell like cinnamon. Admittedly, hers is very beautiful, but
we’ve always used my centerpiece. What warrants such flagrant psychological child abuse? Is no tradition sacred anymore? What’s next, no presents at Christmas?
She seats us around the large rectangular table: herself at the head, Joel next to her, me at the foot, and Gisele on her other side. We could have sat next to each other, but apparently that’s too much like how we used to sit. Heaven forbid Joel holds hands with his girlfriend under the table.
“We should begin our dinner by saying grace,” says Mom, beaming at the assembled goodies on the table. It all smells fine, but I miss turkey and green bean casserole. “Cassie?”
“What?” I ask, startled. I was remembering fresh whipped cream. I might have been drooling. “Oh, right. Grace.” Gisele looks as confused as me, but I grab her hand and Joel’s and begin. “Bless us oh Lord for these thy gifts which we are about to receive from thy bounty through Christ our Lord, amen.” I say it bullet fast, and Joel grumbles along with me. Mom seems perturbed at my speed but releases our hands and reaches for the spaghetti bowl.
“I almost forgot!” she gasps, and I pause, mid-reach for the sweet potatoes. Joel nibbles a crescent roll, and Gisele piles cranberries a la Oslo on her plate. “We need to go around the table and say one thing we’re thankful for. I am so thankful to be having this meal with all of you, especially Joel and his friend.” And I will be playing the part of chopped liver today, on the side of stinky onions. “Joel? Gisele? Who would like to go next?”
“I’m thankful for my job in sunny California,” says Joel around a mouthful of roll. “And for Gisele, of course.” They make gooey eyes across the table, and I almost say I’m thankful for my gag-reflex.
“And I’m thankful for Joel! And this fantastic meal. Thank you, Beatrice. Everything looks lovely.” Suck up.
“And Cassie? Don’t forget about Cassie,” says Joel, grinning. I should slug him and dump the mashed potatoes in his lap. See him get over those second-degree burns.
I try to think of anything I’m thankful for this year and come up with squat. What should I be thankful for? I’ve gone out with five guys so far this year and none of them remotely registered a feeling. My friends ganged up on me and coerced me into their tawdry machinations, and they included my boss. I’m forced to edit romance novels until Kelly thinks I’ve mastered them, and Carly gets Justin all to herself. He was my editing partner, dammit! Let’s see, my father is a better writer than me and is dating the reincarnation of Imelda Marcos. My brother has decided to break Dad’s heart and stay in California for Christmas. Anything else I can be thankful for? In the end I can only think of one thing.
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