Off the Menu (15 page)

Mama comes into the kitchen. “Table for eighteen, now. Goot luck. Chai.” Eighteen is a sacred Jewish number, since the word
chai
, or life, adds up to eighteen. I got at least two dozen checks for eighteen dollars when I was bat mitzvahed. Mama is beaming, and I know that it makes her very happy
that Patrick is coming. And Sara is right. I love this holiday, and letting something as stupid as the way Patrick weaseled into it bug me only hurts me. I vow to shake it off, and turn to take the cranberry sauce out of the fridge to take the chill off.

The last half hour before Thanksgiving dinner is an exercise in true brigade cooking. Sara takes on the mashed potatoes, which are really only perfect if made at the last minute, and lucky for us all, her potatoes are
killer
. Full of butter and cream and sour cream and chives, perfectly smooth and creamy and addictive. Jenny transfers cooked and cold dishes to pretty plates, garnishing as appropriate, and makes sure proper serving pieces are attached. Nat arranges the buffet dishes as she receives them while I carve the turkey and Mama makes the gravy. I am just putting the last slices of breast meat on the platter and basting the whole platter with a bit of butter emulsified into turkey stock, and spooning the juices that have gathered in the cutting board over the meat so that it all stays wonderfully moist, when I hear the doorbell, followed by loud, happy noises of greeting in the front room. Himself has arrived, and made some sort of entrance.

I bring the platter of turkey out, place it at the head of the buffet, and Mama follows with the old pockmarked pewter gravy boat. Patrick makes a beeline for my mom, kissing her on both cheeks. “Mama! Do you believe I had to order this horrible weather just so I could come be with you for Thanksgiving?” Give me a break. He surveys the room and the buffet. “You did not strike the mud with your face, Mama.” I hate that he now knows enough parent-speak to throw her own weird saying at her like an expert. She laughs, blushes, and slaps his arm.

“Eet is Alana. By myself? It would be to break up some
firewood.” I know it is in English, but frankly I have no idea what the hell they are saying to each other. He turns to me after I put the cranberry sauce next to the turkey.

“Alana-chicana.” He kisses the top of my head, and then looks me up and down, taking in my chocolate brown corduroy skirt, pale blue cashmere V-neck sweater, and brown boots. My hair is down, and due to lack of humidity is actually behaving, settling into ringlets instead of frizz. I have my contacts in for a change, and am wearing a little makeup. “You look adorable. I forget that you’re a girl.” Great, thanks. “It’s nice to see you out of the cargo pants and ponytail! And who knew you had those blue eyes under those glasses?” He’s such a shit. We have been to more black-tie events than professional prom chaperones, and he always says the exact same thing. Usually right before he disappears to put his hand up the designer skirt of some set of Legs.

“I clean up okay,” I say, biting back the “Fuck you” that is rising in my throat.

“You do, at that.” He tugs my elbow and pulls me into the little nook between the kitchen and hallway. “Hey, honey, I just wanted to really thank you for letting me crash your holiday. I know it is probably a pain in the ass, and not what you were hoping for, but it really means a lot to me that you let me come.”

I can feel myself soften. “It’s okay. We never would have let you spend it alone.”

“Well, alone isn’t the issue, my phone was blowing up with offers all day, but I really needed to be somewhere I knew the food would be good. You know how it is with Thanksgiving. If the meal is disappointing it just sticks with you till Christmas! Remember when I went to Bob’s house that year and they didn’t have mashed potatoes? Or that ghastly deep-fried
turkey? Plus, you know how crazy I am about food safety. Thanksgiving is a hotbed of potential food poisoning. Undercooked turkey, stuffing cooked in the bird just breeding bacteria, children of unknown hygiene touching the yams with their germy fingers. I knew you’d have everything perfect, delicious, and e-coli free.” My neck spasms. He’s here because of the flipping food. Not because he wants to spend the holiday with warm and welcoming people who have always treated him like family. Not because my sweet mama always calls him
zeen
, the Yiddish word for “son,” and tries to be a surrogate mother to him, knowing he never really had one. Not because I am probably closer to him than any human being on the planet, and who else would he turn to on a day like today. Nope. Sir Conlon just wanted to guarantee he didn’t end up somewhere with dry turkey and gluey gravy, or a serious case of the shits. Unbelievable.

“Glad to be of service. Want to grab a plate and we’ll get you fed?” I give up.

My siblings get their gaggle of munchkins settled at the kids’ end of the table with their plates, cutting things up into bite-size pieces, and filling glasses and sippy cups with milk and apple juice. Maria and Patrick are sent through the line as honored guests. I always go last; it is the nature of the chef to want to stand back, watch people pick and choose, hear the people who are already tucking in moan and groan in delight. In my pocket, I feel my phone vibrate. I have a text message.

And suddenly, every ounce of ick I was feeling melts away. I quickly text back.

“To this wonderful family, who are so generous and special.” Patrick is standing, glass raised, and everyone is quiet, even the kids. “I am very blessed to know each and every one of you, and I am very thankful for your company and your hospitality. And I am especially thankful for Alana, without whom I wouldn’t be half the success or half the man that I am. Alana, I love you and want you to know that I am infinitely better for having you in my life, and I thank you for all you do for me personally and professionally. Cheers.”

Everyone clinks glasses, Patrick makes important eye contact with me, and my mother beams and my father glowers suspiciously. Maria winks at me, takes a mouthful of stuffing, and rolls her eyes in ecstasy. The next forty minutes are a festival of soul eating. I know many immigrant families incorporate their traditional dishes into the Thanksgiving feast, but not my folks. Our menu is Norman Rockwell on crack. Turkey with gravy. Homemade cranberry relish and the jellied stuff from the can. Mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes with marshmallows, green bean casserole. Cornbread stuffing and buttery yeast rolls. The only nods to our heritage are mustard-seed pickled carrots and dill-cucumber salad, to have something cool and palate-cleansing on the plate. A crazy layered Jell-O dish, with six different colors in thin stripes, looking like vintage Bakelite.

Jeff and the girls show up just in time for desserts … apple
pie, pumpkin pie, pecan bars, cheesecake brownies, and Maria’s flan. He and Nat share a long hug and deep kiss, which tells me that he has had a long, clenched sort of day, and is ready to finally relax. Their girls, Lia and Rachel, are in matching pink frilly dresses and black patent Mary Janes, and the way that Nat is admiring them through gritted teeth tells me that this is not what she dressed them in before they headed to their grandparents’ house.

We believe that Thanksgiving is as much about leftovers as the meal, so the extra fridge in the garage is already filled with bags prepacked with smaller versions of the complete meal already set to go. Mama and I roasted a second turkey yesterday, and we made double batches of everything, filling endless disposable plastic containers and making up the bags for everyone except me, as I will pack my own bag from the actual leftovers from tonight’s meal.

After dinner, Patrick insists on being in charge of cleanup, and dons Mama’s apron and a pair of yellow rubber gloves, much to the delight of the kids, whom he recruits for drying and putting-away duty. Mama and Papa relax in the den, a little worn-out from all the tumult, while my siblings break down the massive table arrangement, and get the folding chairs back into the attic. Maria and I pack up the rest of the food.

“’E is funny with the
ninos
,” she muses. “Verrrrry much on their level! Maybe he would come do a guest class with the after-school prrrrrrogram.”

I think about this. “It’s actually a good idea. I’ll ask him this week. Did you find a teacher yet?”

“Yes, Melanie’s partner, Kai, is going to teach the first group. ’E has been with her since the beginning, so ’e knows all about the nutrition.”

“I’ve met him, he’s amazing. And I think his energy will be perfect for the kids. Very smart. When do the classes start?”

“Januarrrrry. Thursday afternoons. Patrrrrick can do any class he wants from Febrrruary on.”

“I’ll get it on his schedule.”

Patrick starts to chant like a deranged drill sergeant. “And, WIPE the front until it shines! Then WIPE the back like your own behinds!” Patrick is singing and conducting the six kids who are old enough to wield dish towels, all of whom are collapsing in laughter at his naughty song. “Make sure it’s dry, or I’ll tell you what! Your aunt Alana will kick your butt!”

I shake my head, and Maria laughs.

“You ’ave to admit, ’e has his moments!” She puts an arm around me and squeezes. I squeeze back.

“He certainly does.” Pity they are few and far between.

Once things are cleaned up, the crowd disperses quickly. The kids are all punchy and past their bedtimes, Maria is determined to go home and do an hour on the elliptical before bed, and Patrick whispers in my ear that a certain young actress with whom he had a brief fling at the South Beach food and wine festival is apparently also stuck in town, and in need of entertaining.

But it doesn’t faze me. I am eager to get home and walk Dumpling, and call RJ and hear his voice. And that eagerness is something I find that I am actually thankful for, and for the first time, not nervous about.

When I get home, Dumpling is sitting in his little bed, looking sort of odd, and not jumping up to greet me the way he usually does. As I get closer, I can see that all of the white fur sections on his little head are a strange orange color.

“Dumpling …”

I see a small spot on the rug. I lean down and touch it. It
is damp and a little sticky, and leaves an orange smear on my finger. I gingerly sniff it.

“Tomato?! What the?”

Then I see it halfway down the hallway. The large box of Pomi crushed tomato puree I had left on the counter. “Dumpling! What did you do?” I walk down the hallway and find the box, neatly chewed open and emptied of its contents, every corner of the silvery inside of the box licked clean to a mirrorlike finish. I suddenly realize that not only did he have to do a vertical leap of well over three feet to grab the box, but he would have had to stick his whole head into the box to eat it. No small feat, even with a miniature head. And after a quick look around, I also realize that the orange fur and that one spot on the rug are the only bits of evidence.

The dog has managed to eat twenty-eight ounces of crushed tomato puree out of a box and not make a mess in my apartment. I don’t know if I am more pissed or impressed. And then I hear Dumpling get off his bed and come down the hallways toward me.

“Dumpling.” I put on my serious unhappy voice. “Bad dog. BAD dog.” And then I see the look on his face and realize that the after-effects of eating a twenty-sixth of his body weight in tomatoes is going to be punishment enough. No sooner do we get out of the front gate, than Dumpling makes a beeline for the space under the tree halfway up the block where he prefers to make his evening toilet, and befouls it in an explosive manner, made worse-looking for being highlighted by the accumulated snow. Poor pupper. I have a feeling it is going to be a long night for both of us. When he has completed his unfortunate business, complete with a little snowy butt scoot for good measure, we head back inside. I give him an Imodium, put some long-grain white rice in the rice cooker,
and take some ground white-meat chicken out of the freezer to thaw. He’ll need a day or two of a rice and chicken diet so that his tummy can settle down. I’ll make enough to get us through the weekend. I change out of my skirt and sweater, and get into a pair of knit lounging pants and matching hoodie, from the Target Cashmiracle collection … feels like cashmere, but melts if you get too close to the stove. Don’t ask how I know. I have four sets in black and charcoal gray, and they are my uniform when I work at home from November through April.

Dumpling sloppily drinks his bowl dry, and looks at me imploringly to refill it.

“More sodium than you are used to, huh?” I fill the bowl with water, and float two ice cubes in it, one of his favorite things, chasing the cubes around the bowl with his nose, slurping them up and spitting them back out until they are gone. When he is set, I grab the phone and check my messages.

“Alana, you are our
hero
!” It’s Emily, and I am presuming her first Thanksgiving has been a success. “Everything worked like magic. Well, except for when I opened the cabinet above the stove and a glass fell out and shattered in an explosion sending shards of glass into the pumpkin soup, but don’t worry we threw it out and made a new batch that wouldn’t shred anyone’s intestines. And everything was delicious. And everyone loved it. And everyone wants to come back next year. We have FLIPPED THE SCRIPT, and it is all due to you. Love you, John loves you, Mina and Lacey love you …. We are all SO DRUUUUUNK! And full of yummy. Call me tomorrow.” Emily and her husband are estranged from both of their families, and have always ignored the holidays, sort of holing up and pretending they aren’t happening.
But this year I suggested to her that Thanksgiving is right up her alley, a holiday all about food. Since she and John love to cook together and are trying to entertain more, I told her to host it herself and see if she could turn it back into a holiday she could like. Mina came with her dad. Lacey’s folks are in Florida, and no way was she traveling Thanksgiving weekend, so she was available. A couple of friends of John’s without local family. A true orphans’ Thanksgiving, and apparently a wildly successful one at that. It makes me happy to think that Em and John have reclaimed the day, and hope it becomes a new tradition for them. I check my watch—nearly ten. I pick up the phone to see how RJ’s day has been.