Chapter 5: Top Chef...Maybe...

Britin...
Thanksgiving Day....8 A.M...9 hours until dinner...

Brian got out of the shower a few minutes after eight when his cell phone chimed with an incoming text message, which said:

“Prepare to name our firstborn Charlotte, cause I've never been happier to be stateside than right now!”

Brian was slightly taken aback by the “firstborn” comment, but decided to have fun with it anyway and texted back:

“What about Miami?”

“Layover, so I guess it didn't count. Charlotte it is!”

“U realize, if it's a boy he'll get the shit kicked out of him @ school for being named Charlotte.”

“LOL! Charles, then. On my way to the car rental place. Call u @ VA border. Love u!”

“Love u 2. Drive safe & btw, Happy Thanksgiving!”

“Happy Thanksgiving! C u in 8 hrs, give or take.” Came another reply.

Brian laughed, shaking his head. “You just gotta have the last word, don't you, Sunshine?” he said aloud to the phone.

He put on his favorite workout gear and headed to the kitchen. He deliberately avoided the printed recipes on the counter, the bags of groceries that didn't need refrigeration that were left on the kitchen island, and he especially ignored the fridge itself with the 20 pound turkey that was defrosting in there. “I have more than 8 hours before dinner - plenty of time.” he thought and decided to spend a couple of hours having breakfast – coffee, toast, newspaper, CNN International in the background – and working out – treadmill, pushups, situps, weights. He decided that if he was going to be eating a ton of food, laden with butter, sugar and carbs all day long, the least he could do for his body was to get a little bit of exercise.

~*~*~*~*~

10 A.M... 7 hours to Thanksgiving Dinner....

At ten a.m. and after another refreshing shower Brian put on his oldest pair of Armani jeans, a black wife beater and went down to the kitchen to deal with the dinner preparations. He remembered Justin talking about doing a bunch of things in advance, so he thought he'd spend an hour prepping, then take a break for a couple of hours and start cooking in earnest around three. “Two hours should be plenty!” he decided.

He took a look at the printed recipes and decided to check them off against the stuff that he bought the day before: turkey – check, stuffing – check, mashed potatoes – check, scalloped potatoes – check, green bean casserole – check, candied yams – fuck!, gravy – double fuck!, salad – check, apple pie – check, pumpkin pie – check, cinnamon ice cream – check.

Brian realized he forgot to buy the gravy and there was no way he was making it from scratch. The idea of candied yams slightly turned his stomach. Brian was not at all a fan of sweet potatoes, or yams, or whatever the hell people called them, in any shape or form, candied included. Realizing that he had no choice he called Cynthia.

“Cynthia, Brian here. About those candied yams of yours – bring them, will you? Somehow I missed the recipe that Justin printed out and didn't buy them. Oh, and pick up some gravy on the way, OK? Seems I forgot to buy that too.”

“You are telling me this now, Brian? After ten on Thanksgiving day? When most stores are either completely cleaned out, already closed or will be closing in an hour?”

“If anyone can get it done, it's the mighty Cynthia – I have faith in you!” Brian said, trying to keep his usual smirk in check.

“Ah-huh. I'm not falling for the 'mighty Cynthia' comment, Brian. I'm only doing this for Justin, no one else, understand?”

“Perfectly. Thanks!”

“Brian, how's the cooking coming? Need any help?”

“Cooking? I have hours yet, Cynthia. Don't worry, I have everything under control. See you at five with the yams and gravy.” He said and hung up without waiting for a response.

Looking back at the recipes, he decided that the list wasn't all that long. He picked up the pies at a local bakery – he drew the line at baking. He actually found cinnamon ice cream, which was, apparently, a seasonal thing. The salad was the easiest thing on the list and would take him all of five minutes to make, especially since salad making was his contribution to dinner when Justin and he ate at home. So all he had to do was roast the turkey and prepare four side dishes, two of which were made with potatoes.

“Why the hell does he want two types of potatoes?” Brian thought, “Fuck it, he wants them, he'll have them!”

Justin's directions for cooking the turkey called for a fresh bird. Unfortunately, all that was left at the market on Liberty avenue was one frozen 20 pound Butterball and Brian refused to go halfway across town to the Big Q just on the off chance they'd still have a fresh one left. At least the size was right for the number of people coming to dinner.

“Deb, Carl, Linds, Mel, Gus, JR, Michael, Ben, Hunter, Ted, Blake, Emmett, Calvin, Jennifer, Tucker, Molly, Daphne and Cynthia – that makes 18, plus us two.” He counted out loud. “Twenty in total, so the beast should be just right. Besides, Gus and Jr are kids, they don't eat all that much, it should be enough. Speaking of...” he decided to check on the defrosting “beast” in the fridge and was utterly surprised to find it still partially frozen. “Shit!”

He got it out, took a closer look at the direction on the plastic package and to his dismay read that it takes several days to thaw a 20 pound bird in the refrigerator.

“Fuck!” he exclaimed again. The bird was too large to put in the microwave and he was starting to panic, when an idea hit suddenly hit him. “Cold water, it'll defrost faster in cold water! It's barely after 10:30 – plenty of time!” He put the bird in the sink, filled it with cold water and decided to deal with the prep work next.

He got out all the veggies, laid them all out assembly style, re-read the recipes one more time, but before he could get started his phone rang and Justin's happy voice filled the kitchen over his cell phones' speaker.

“Brian! I just crossed the Virginia border. It took a while to get the rental car and to get out of the airport, but once I got out of the city and onto the freeway, traffic was no problem and it was smooth sailing up to this point. The GPS in the rental says that I have another five and a half hours to go. It's almost 11 now, so I'll be home around 4:30-ish, barring any traffic issues.”

“That's great! Call me when you hit the West Virginia border.”

“I will. How is it going over there?”

“Great, Sunshine! No problems, none whatsoever!” Brian said as brightly as he could. “Don't worry about a thing and just concentrate on getting your ass home safe and sound.”

“OK. I gotta go, Brian. Love you.”

“You too.” Brian hung up and decided to start with the onions, but before he could get started his phone rang again. This time it was Deb on the phone.

“Brian, a little birdy told me that you took it upon yourself to cook the Thanksgiving dinner. Need any help?”

“No, Deb. I'm fine. Everything's under control. Just get here by five like we discussed, OK? Oh, and next time a little birdy starts talking – shoot it!” He said and unceremoniously hung up.

Over the next two hours, while he was busy chopping every vegetable known to man – at least, in his opinion – he was interrupted by just about everyone on the list of invited guests, all of whom were solicitously asking if he needed help cooking. Brian realized that he was being stubborn in the extreme, but he was determined to get everything done himself and refused every offer. He figured, if Justin could find a way to overcome seemingly insurmountable odds and get home for Thanksgiving, then he should be able to do the same with this dinner.

~*~*~*~*~

1 P.M. Four hours to Thanksgiving Dinner...

By one o'clock, Brian finally understood why Justin wanted to prep as much as possible the day before and was cursing himself for wasting time earlier. In the last two hours amid countless interruptions, he cried like a girl after chopping what seemed like a hundred pounds of onions, when in fact it was only about four medium sized bulbs. He nicked his thumb trying to slice potatoes into paper-thin rounds because he couldn't find a mandolin.“What the fuck is a mandolin anyway? I wouldn't recognize one if I saw it.” he admitted to himself. His other thumb got the same treatment when he was trying to mince a couple of cloves of garlic. When he belatedly read in the recipe that the garlic could be grated instead, he wanted to scream.

He decided he hated celery, carrots, bell peppers and mushrooms with a passion and if he never chopped them into “small, uniform, bite-size pieces” again in his life, it would be too soon. After cutting what looked like a mountain of green beans into equal-sized thirds, he thought his vision was beginning to have problems because green dots were starting to dance in front of his eyes. To remedy that uncomfortable situation, he got a snifter of Jim Beam and tossed back about a third of a glass.

Five minutes later he felt marginally better, his vision cleared and he decided it was time to deal with the defrosting “beast” in the sink. It needed four and a half hours of roasting time and it being just past one pm, he was rapidly running out of time. When he read the package directions again, he started to slightly panic and tossed another snifter of Beam. When that didn't help, he called Deb.

“Deb, it says that I am supposed to reach in and get the 'innards' package out of the turkey. What the fuck? I am not putting my hand in there! Do you think I can leave it in?” He asked and didn't recognize his own anxious voice.

“I don't want to sound crude, Brian...”

“When have you ever worried about being crude, Deb? Just tell me what the fuck to do?” He shouted.

“All right, as you wish, I'll be crude. If you can rim some stranger's ass for an hour, you can stick a couple of fingers up a turkey for a couple of seconds and pull out the entrails, OK, honey? So, no, you can't leave it in. By the way, aren't you cutting it a little bit close? It takes hours for a decent-sized bird to roast.”

“Oh God, I'm never going to look at a turkey sandwich the same way again!” He lamented, “And don't worry about the damn turkey, Deb. I'm sure it'll be ready by the time everyone gets here, especially Justin. I just got a text from him; he hit some traffic and probably won't make it here until about six. And by the way, about the rimming...” he continued indignantly, “First of all, that's none of your damn business and second of all, that's been reserved for Justin and Justin alone for quite sometime now, so kindly, shut the fuck up!”

“Shutting!” Deb said and laughed heartily, “Seriously, honey, do you want me to come over and help? You know I don't mind.”

“Thanks, Deb.” Brian answered, sighing, “But I'd rather do it myself.”

“OK. Good luck with the turkey guts, Brian!” She said jauntily and hung up.

“Thanks, I think.” he mumbled into the silent phone line.

Brian eyed the turkey resentfully and was about to reach for a bottle of Beam again, but then he suddenly remembered an old phrase that he heard was once said by Queen Victoria in relation to sex - “close your eyes and think of England”. He was of the opinion that she wasn't the one who said it, since by all accounts she had nine kids and was actually happily married, but at that point, confronted with a raw, wet and cold turkey, none of that crap mattered to him a hell of a lot. “I don't need Beam. I'm a man. I'll just close my eyes and think of Justin.” he thought and squaring his shoulders reached into the bird. As it turned out, the procedure wasn't all that bad and did, in fact, take all of a couple of seconds, just as Deb said. He sighed in relief and continued to prepare the “beast” for the oven.

~*~*~*~*~

4:30 P.M. Half an hour to Thanksgiving Dinner...

By four in the afternoon Brian was utterly exhausted and promised himself that he will never cook a Thanksgiving dinner or any other meal ever again as long as he lived. He decided that he'll stick to making salad during every day dinners, let Justin take care of the rest and be grateful for every single bite that he didn't have to prepare himself. As for Thanksgiving dinner, after today, he decided that he didn't want to hear those words again – at least in relation to him and cooking. He vowed to leave it in Justin, Deb, Jennifer and Emmett's capable hands from now on and next year, he'll lock himself at Kinnetik or his home office until it was actually time to sit down to eat. He decided to apply the same principle to any other holiday or family gathering.

At four thirty, he took a hasty shower and got ready to greet his guests, which began to arrive almost immediately. However, there was only one person he was most anxious to see and that was Justin. He talked to him twice for about a minute at the West Virginia and then at the Pennsylvania border – he was less than an hour and a half away and Brian couldn't wait.

By five, almost everyone was there and helping Brian set up the large table in the formal dining room. All the women, of course, flocked to the kitchen to inspect his handywork. The turkey was still in the oven, needing about another half an hour; the green bean casserole, the scalloped potatoes and the stuffing were in the other oven still cooking as well. While Brian was busy at the stove mashing the potatoes, Deb, Jennifer, Lindsay and Cynthia all decided to pitch in and assemble the salad. They all talked non-stop about how impressed they were with Brian for attempting to cook dinner and praised him right, and left for every single dish they haven't even tried yet. Brian tried to ignore them as best he could and tried to concentrate on adding the right amount of half & half to his potatoes. Unfortunately, their constant interruptions distracted him and he accidentally upended the entire half gallon carton of half & half into the pot. His nerves got the best of him and he threw them all out of the kitchen, telling them not to come back in under penalty of death.

Five minutes later, Michael, Ben, Hunter, Emmett, Ted, Blake and Carl came in. Brian was ready to blow up again at a moments notice, when Carl said in his gravelly, but kind voice.

“Boy, I feel like having a drink. Got any beer?”

“Or Beam?” Ben asked.

“I can make us all a batch of Cosmos? I brought everything with me!” Emmett sang out.

“At this point, I'll drink anything, as long as it's a double!” Brian said, groaning. He abandoned the mashed potatoes, turned around and walking up to the kitchen island, heavily slumped on top of it's gleaming, cold, marble surface.

~*~*~*~*~