Thanksgiving Cigs

Issue 2

It was Thanksgiving 2007; the first holiday I ever spent away from my family. Despite dating Dan for a couple years, I hadn’t met his dad yet. I was led to believe that was for the best, as stories about Frank were infamous and off-putting. But a girl who wants to get engaged will do desperate things, so I drove from Georgia to Myrtle Beach to spend Thanksgiving with my future husband and his father.

There would be four of us, including Frank’s buddy from high school. The guys had plans to golf Thanksgiving morning, which meant I would be cooking by myself. I had never basted anything, let alone prepared an entire Thanksgiving feast, but I was armed with copies of my beloved family recipes, determined to impress.

We arrived late on Wednesday night with a carload of groceries. After chatting with Frank for a while, I found him to be calm, not as brash as described. But I was hit with a literal rude awakening at 7 the next morning when Frank flung open my bedroom door.

“My oven is broken. Get up and I’ll show you where you’ll be cooking.”

Frank insisted we leave immediately because he didn’t want to be late for their tee time. Before I could change out of my pajamas, brush my teeth, find my shoes, or grab Dan for emotional support, I was sitting in Frank’s passenger seat, heading to a stranger’s home.

It was a double wide trailer, and it belonged to a husband-and-wife pair in their seventies, acquaintances of Frank’s. The woman, hair dyed like red cotton candy, took a deep drag off her Virginia Slim and blew smoke my way as she said hello. Asphyxiated, I followed her and watched as she gave a Vanna White presentation of her kitchen.

“This is the oven. This is where I keep my pots.”

I was barefoot and bewildered. I wished I could call my mom. I would whisper my location and the family safe word she taught 5-year-old-me for emergencies.

As the woman pulled out spatulas, I heard a noise and turned to find a dog – a 150-pound Saint Bernard – bounding my way. Before I could brace myself, he split my legs like a barrel racer and came to an abrupt halt, his huge head mounted at my crotch. The woman, we’ll call her Reba, continued talking, oblivious to the violation. After a few unsuccessful attempts to dismount the dog, I gave up. I was still straddling Beethoven when Frank said we had to go.

Back at Frank’s house, Dan asked if he should skip the golf round. My wide eyes and quivering chin conveyed horror, but my mouth was all, “Oh no, you need this time with your dad. Go have fun. I’ve got this.”

I called my mom when the guys walked out the door. I cried with abandon, lamenting about Frank, and the second-hand smoke, and how dumb it is to spend holidays with your partner’s family. Frank’s dog puked in the middle of the living room, perfectly punctuating my emotions.

I prepped food at Frank’s house, then returned to the double wide to cook, this time with shoes and fresh breath. There was no background noise all day - no TV, no music, no Wi-Fi - just Reba, her dog, and me, revolving around one another in the tiny kitchen.

I was clueless about turkey preparation, but Reba had my back. With a cigarette balanced on her bottom lip like a tight rope walker, she rasped unsavory directions.

“Pull the shit out of its neck! Now shove some butter up his ass!”

Over the next few hours, I rotated dishes in the oven and sat with Reba at the kitchen table. She was not a conversationalist, and I was fine with that. She chain-smoked, while I contemplated my life decisions. Namely, Dan.

My recipe yielded two pumpkin pies, so I gave one to Reba as a thank you. I invited her to join us for dinner, but she and her husband preferred The Golden Corral buffet. I thought I might also.

The guys and I pulled into Frank’s house at the same time. I wanted them to return to a spotless kitchen and a set table, but the sink was full, and ingredients were still scattered across the counter. When Frank saw the kitchen, he immediately started shaking his head and grumbling about the mess. He lived up to all the stories I’d heard over the years. He was the grinch who stole Thanksgiving.

“What did you do in here? Why did you make so much food? There’s four of us. Danny, did you tell her there’s just four of us?”

I looked at the bounty of food I prepared and wanted to wail. I MADE MY FIRST TURKEY! I PULLED THE SHIT OUT!

Dan snapped at his dad in my defense. He said I was selfless (so selfless) for leaving my family to come to Myrtle Beach and cook an entire Thanksgiving dinner by myself. They bickered, father and son, throughout the entire meal, pausing occasionally to say they were enjoying the turkey.

“Thanks. I put butter in his butt.”

Later that evening, while eating pumpkin pie, I felt wistful about my new gal pal Reba. Was she the best part of this trip? Was she the chain-smoking Cindy Lou Who of Thanksgiving? I looked over at Frank’s golden retriever, so small, a third the size of the frisky Saint Bernard. I thought of Reba and the silence we shared in her double wide. I hoped she was enjoying her pumpkin pie, that it paired nicely with her cigarettes. I pictured her taking a long drag, and I exhaled an imaginary puff of smoke.