I've never been a fan of animal guts, even less so now. I didn't hurl as I pulled out the turkey's bag of innards, but paced myself. Starting two days early worked out well. Ben would come in the kitchen and watch: asking a few questions, sampling everything along the way, praising constantly.
Up and dressed at seven o'clock on Thanksgiving morning to cook the mighty fowl, I clicked on the oven and nothing. No spark, no whoosh, no heat. No fucking way.
"Ben," I wailed.
He ran, nude, into the kitchen.
"You're in labor already?"
"No, everything is ruined because the oven is dead."
"Of natural causes or do you suspect foul play?" he asked and laughed.
I went to the sink, filled a glass with cold water, and poured it over his head.
"Hey, I'm not a house plant," he sputtered.
"Anything else, funny boy?" This wasn't happening. Everything would be ruined.
"It will be fine. We'll buy a new one," he said, using a dish towel to dry off.
"What time is it?" I asked.
"Seven."
"What day is it?"
"Thanksgiving."
"What fucking appliance store is open at this fucking time in the morning on this of all fucking days?" I yelled.
"Valid point," he said as he went to the kitchen phone and dialed.
"Hi, Travis, is anyone in the building out of town?" he asked. "Mrs. Morton is gone until this evening. Perfect. When you can, come upstairs and bring the pass key."
"Doesn't Travis get the day off?"
"His family is scattered all over the country. He leaves tomorrow for Cleveland to see his sister, and then his other siblings will be around on the weekend. I pay him double for working on the holiday." Ben dropped the towel and started to clean up the water on the floor.
"I'm sorry I lost it. You came up with a working solution while I had a meltdown," I said.
"I'm not just a pretty face," he said.
"With a cute butt," I added.
"Thank you for noticing. I'll get dressed, and you figure out what needs to be done," he said, kissing my nose.
I stuffed my twenty-pound masterpiece, put it in my grandma's roaster, and waited. Mentally ticking off all the cooking times in my head, I will be up and down the stairs eighty times. A disaster in the making, I should call my sisters and beg off. How could I reach Mr. Cobb and tell him not to come? No, I refused to accept defeat so early in the day. The pregnancy manuals gave me strength, any setback can be overcome.
I'd been reading over the material from Tad's office. Great idea for telling the babies apartthink forehead tattoos. Breastfeeding in the football hold position: heads in hands, feet pinned under elbows. Don't fret over weight gain. Obviously written by a man, who in the next sentence, listed an exercise regimen for when the babies napped. Squat and lunge this, buddy. Ask for and accept help: one sister worked during the day the other at night. They'd bring a bottle of wine and critique me. No one had more advantages than I, and I felt useless. I babysat a few times and didn't like it. At twelve years old, no amount of money was worth the hours of crying, pooping, and pacifying children.
"Alexia, are you coming or what? Travis is waiting," Ben said.
Forget the pregnancy and cold oven, today was all about the food. Something I excelled at and liked to do. I picked up my pan like a sandbag and lugged it to the elevator. Ben took it from me as we traveled down to Mrs. Morton's apartment. Travis used the key and opened the door. He stepped in and turned on the light.
"Oh, it's lovely," I said.
Lavender and cream were the dominant colors of the living room. The modern kitchen was a chef's dream: gleaming copper pots and pans, state of the art appliances, and two conventional ovens. I turned one on to preheat. The blue flames danced.
"Success," I said.
"You're good to go. I can go back to bed," Ben said, setting the pan on the counter.
"Yes, you're exempt from the cleanup. You have saved me from major catastrophe," I said as I kissed him.
Travis coughed.
"I'll leave the key with you and absolve myself from any mischief you two make in here."
"Thank you, Travis," he said, picking me up and putting me on the counter.
We heard the door close and kissed again.
"You will not overdo it today. You should be sleeping. I will help any way I can. This isn't a competition. Everyone will be pleased. If they're not, they'll never be invited back," Ben said.
"I know, but this is one thing I do better than my sisters. I like a chance to shine."
"You have many qualities above and beyond them."
"You're blind to my flaws because you love me," I said as I kissed him. "The main thing is the turkey. Once it's in the oven, I have a few hours of downtime. I baked yesterday. The potatoes and veggies have to be assembled and will have to be heated. So, I'll need to carry the dishes back and forth."
"I know there are carts somewhere. I'll go downstairs and find one."
He helped me down from the counter, and I put the turkey in the oven.
"I don't like leaving the condo with the oven on," I said.
"It will be fine. We go at regular intervals and check on it," he said.
"This is good training for parenthood: being able to share responsibilities, have a contingency plan, delegation of duties."
"Is there a test at the end?" he asked.
"Actually two, one given today and the other in twenty years. No food poisoning the guests and how well the kids turn out reflects on the parents," I said.
"No wonder my dad hates me."
"He doesn't hate you. He wishes the cloning process didn't have so many loopholes for personal growth and rebellion."
"Once the babies are down for a nap," he said, pointing at the oven, "the parents should make love."
"Too true, you have my undivided attention for a half hour."
"Time's a wastin'," he said, taking my hand and hustling out the door.
Peeling potatoes was the dumbest chore: time consuming, messy, and mind-numbing. Maybe mashing them would curb my disappointment about my cooking odyssey so far. The sweet potatoes were boiled, de-skinned, cut up, and in a dish with butter and brown sugar. I would sprinkle on the marshmallows later. Ben did find a wobbly pushcart with two shelves. I'd been stacking and unstacking it all morning. I rolled it out in the hall and bumped into Irene.
"Are we eating in the car?" she asked.
"No, my oven died so I'm hauling food to another apartment to cook. It's been a learning experience. Now I know why I flunked out of culinary school."
The elevator doors opened again, and Eleanor stepped out.
"Did we order the meal to go?" she asked.
"No, kitchen malfunction. We're heading to a different location," Irene said.
All three of us got in the elevator with my cart. I pushed the button.
"So why did you leave cooking school?" Irene asked.
"She started a salmonella outbreak or stabbed the instructor. I know it had something to do with violence," Eleanor said.
"Partially. It was because I only follow the set path. I don't think out of the box. I am the box."
They rolled their eyes at each other.
"Hasn't Cobb made a dent in your self-image? You've made my bar a success. Your bottle of wonder sauce was written up on two more food blogs this week. The phone is ringing off the hook for reservations through the end of the year," Irene said.
She patted my back.
"The handmade lace and beading you add to my designs shove my boutique to the front of the line for evening wear. It's all my customers talk about and recommend. You've transformed our businesses into rousing successes and never accept a hint of credit. Must be your genes, just like Mom, always giving," Eleanor said.
Praise from both sisters? There must be something wrong with me. Did Tad tell Ben who told them to be nice in my last days? Did melodrama and paranoia accompany every pregnancy
, and was mine a double shot?
"I didn't do much, just tried to be helpful," I said.
"Sweetie, we'd be lost without you," Eleanor said as she hugged me.
No question, my condition was fatal.
We arrived at Mrs. Morton's apartment. My sisters nosed around as I rearranged the oven's contents and took the turkey out. It rested on the cart and I sat down.
"What time did you get up?" Irene asked me.
"I don't remember."
She pushed the cart, and Eleanor took my arm. We sauntered into our apartment. Ben sat with his back to us in the living room, watching a football game. And wearing a suit?
"There you are, you worthless son of a bitch. Your wife is slaving away with swelling ankles while you…" Irene yelled.
The man stood and scowled at us. Mr. Cobb had arrived.
"I believe you're looking for my son. Which angel of darkness are you: Irene or Eleanor?" he asked.
"Careful, Irene. This one bites. I'm Eleanor Hale, Mr. Cobb. Pleasure to meet you," she said as she extended her hand.
He shook it, but his gaze never left Irene.
"Alexia, Ben went to the store for a few bags of ice. He noticed your ankles, too," Mr. Cobb said.
Steam rose off of both of them, but Irene blinked first. Good move, he has had more years of practice by dueling with Ben.
"Excuse me, Mr. Cobb. I thought you were my new brother-in-law. Naturally, I'm concerned about my little sister's health," Irene said.
"As are we all, Irene. My son is many things, but he loves Alexia. Never doubt his sincerity or honor," he said as he offered his hand to me.
I took it and kissed him on the cheek.
"Good, first impressions and introductions have been made. The patriarchs are sizing each other up. When do we eat?" Ben asked as he hiked in with two plastic bags.
"As soon as you carve the turkey, I'll unmold the cranberry sauce and sauté the beans," I said. "Please be seated in neutral corners."
"I'll take Irene and peruse your condo. We'll make a list of what we like and don't like," Eleanor said as she nudged Irene down the hall.
Mr. Cobb rolled the cart into the kitchen.
"She's protective," I said.
"So am I. Everything smells delicious. Ben told me about the oven. Brava for pushing through and making dinner."
"It's not like building the pyramids, but it's an accomplishment for me," I said.
Mr. Cobb went back to the living room and the game.
Ben stood by the sink, laughing.
"Could anyone's Thanksgiving be frostier than ours? Irene is tough, but if she goes after me in front of him…"
"You fight with him all the time," I said, opening the refrigerator door.
"Yes, but no one is allowed to speak ill of me to him. He reserves the right to criticize and woe to anyone else. Another reason I don't sell or show. My dad would be slashing art critics' tires."
"That's wonderful." He raised an eyebrow at me. "Not the butchering, the care. There are a few more dishes in the oven."
"I'll get them while you rest."
"Don't forget to turn off the oven and the lights. I'll clean up later."
"You will nap after dinner, and your sisters will swab the decks," he said as he and our blessed cart left.
Irene set the table with Helen's dishes, Eleanor and I arranged the food, Mr. Cobb opened the wine bottles, and Ben brought in the turkey. We all sat, and I decided to offer up a word of gratitude.
"Thank you for Mrs. Morton's dual ovens, Ben's unlimited credit to buy all the glorious food, my sisters' silence, and Mr. Cobb's tolerance. We also remember our family not assembled here today. They are loved and missed. Now please eat and enjoy," I said.
Ben handled the flow of conversation, inviting everyone to reintroduce themselves without the combat. Eleanor picked up the baton and talked about our parents. Not about the tragic car accident, but their fun quirks. Mom did the crossword puzzle every morning, and dad played the trombone. Mr. Cobb talked about Helen. Irene ate and smiled at the appropriate intervals. Everyone declared the meal marvelous, and then I went to bed.
Three hours later, I re-emerged from the bedroom. Ben and Eleanor were paging through photo albums and laughing. Irene and Mr. Cobb played chess.
"Have they been getting along?" I asked as I nodded at the intense ones.
"They're gambling for our souls or selling us as galley slaves," Ben said.
"As long as they're quiet," Eleanor said.
I strolled into the spotless kitchen. Not a plate, dish, or glass in sight.
"So, hostess, what's for dessert?" Eleanor asked.
"The pies are cooling downstairs. I'll get them."
"Don't be silly, we'll go," Mr. Cobb said, pointing to Irene.
"Me too," Eleanor said as she stacked the photo albums.
Ben handed me the key as everyone else pushed me out the door and to the elevator. I opened Mrs. Morton's door and was greeted by the smells of cinnamon and apples. We grabbed the pies and were out in the hall as I fumbled with the key
"Precious, someone is stealing Mummy's dishes," Mrs. Morton said, scurrying toward us.
"And filling them with hot food," Irene said.
"What is Precious?" Mr. Cobb asked.
"Her neurotic, cross-dressing dog," I said under my breath. "Mrs. Morton, I'm Alexia Cobb. My husband, Ben, and I live upstairs. I'd like you to meet my sisters, Eleanor and Irene Hale. This is my father-in-law, Benjamin Cobb. Please join us for dessert."
"No dear, I never dine with strangers. It gives Precious indigestion."
"He's not setting a paw in your condo," Eleanor said.
"Where is Precious?" I asked.
"He stepped out for a smoke. Please call me Jean," Mrs. Morton said.
Mr. Cobb, my sisters, and I filed past her.
"You're like the television show. The man with all the wives and children. Which one have you had the longest?" Jean asked Mr. Cobb.
"All of them. They came as a set. It would have cost extra to break them up," he said.
"Wise decision. Good to keep harmony in the family. Well I'm off," she said.
"I'll say," Irene said.
"I apologize for any mess. I'll clean everything up," I said.
"Where?" Jean asked.
"In your apartment. My oven broke, and I've been cooking in your kitchen all day."
"Delightful, do come in," Jean said, trying her doorknob.
"When did the Mad Hatter become a woman?" Eleanor asked.
"Jean, please come upstairs. If you've already eaten, have some coffee," Mr. Cobb said.
"I'd prefer a cognac or brandy or amaretto or Irish whiskey."
"In a to-go cup," Mr. Cobb said.
"I don't know if we have any liquor," I said.
"You do. Ben keeps a stocked bar. Now, Jean," Mr. Cobb said, offering his arm.
"You look so familiar. Have you ever been to South America?" she asked him.
"Of course."
"In my youth, I danced in a revue in Rio. You resemble a mysterious man I met there. I don't recall his name, but I believe he was my third husband."
"Unfortunately, we've neither met nor married."
"Pity. He owes me money."
"I bet they all do," Irene said.
We hustled Jean into the elevator and brought her home.
"Please have a seat. I'm putting apple pie and ice cream out now. Ben, this is Jean Morton, our neighbor."
"Welcome to the Cobb diner," he said, extending his hand. "Sit next to Alexia. The girls and I will bring the pies in."
"Did he call us girls?" Eleanor asked.
"Would you prefer chicks, babes, or dolls?" Ben asked.
"Women of superior quality will suffice. Have a seat, beefcake, you'd only be in the way," Irene said, marching into the kitchen.
Eleanor smiled as she followed.
"You bring out the best in people, son," Mr. Cobb said, pulling out a chair for Jean.
"Fa
mily trait," Ben said, filling the coffee cups.
Mr. Cobb was right about the bar. I brought over three bottles of brownish fluid. The men selected one a piece and added a few drops to their coffee. Jean put four teaspoons of one in her cup. I hoped it helped her medicine stay down.
"Jean, do you have any children?" I asked.
"Heavens no. My late husband, Charles or Ronnie, never wanted any. So I sold them."
"Excuse me?" Ben asked.
My sisters came back with the pie and ice cream and caught the conversation. They quickly took their seats.
"She should go on tour," Eleanor said.
"The chairs, dear boy, were a wedding gift from my great aunt Louise on my mother's side. She adored me: offered me furs, beads, and rugs," Jean said.
"Was she bartering on the frontier?" Irene asked.
"She lived in Paris where I met the love of my life."
We fell silent, waiting for the next misadventure to be told. Jean stared out the window. Was Heathcliff scratching at the glass? The phone rang. Ben got up and walked into the kitchen.
"Yes, she's here having a lot of things to drink. Okay, send him up."
He came back to the table.
"Jean, your grandson is on his way here."
There was a knock at the door.
"That will be Mario. Saturdays, after dinner, we rumba on the roof," Jean said as she stood.
"Didn't you rumble on the roof?" Eleanor asked Irene.
"No, you tumbled off the roof. It's the root of your many psychological problems," Irene said.
"As I remember, I was pushed."
"See what I mean?" Irene said.
Ben answered the door and a young man stepped in.
"Grandma, why did you leave the house?" he asked Jean.
"I believe he's talking to you," Jean said, smiling at me.
My sisters stood up, sped down the hall, and closed a bedroom door. I knew they were laughing.
"I'm sorry, my name is Robert Day. My grandma is losing her grip on things. These last two months, I've been the doorman, her high school Science teacher, and Henri Somebody. My mom, her daughter, has been trying to get her to move in with us."
"I'm Alexia Cobb. I'm sure we added to her confusion. Our oven broke and I used hers to make our dinner. She came home and found us leaving her apartment. She's a wonderful storyteller."
Spicing Up Trouble: a romantic comedy Page 23