The Perfect Thanksgiving Feast

Mark never made Thanksgiving dinner before. In fact, he burned macaroni and cheese last time he tried to make it. He didn’t do well with knives… or hot things. He had trouble working a potato peeler! I told him I would be fine if we celebrated Thanksgiving on another day so I could cook the meal, but he insisted that he’d be fine.

He stood in the kitchen as I readied for work, looking somewhat confused. “This knob works the heat thingie for the oven, right?”

“Mark, please, I can…”

“Kidding! Simply kidding, My Love!” with his usual flare, he flung a towel over his shoulder with an Emeril Lagasse “BAM!” sending stuffing mix flying across the kitchen. “A minor inconvenience,” he waved off my help and slinked away for the broom and dustpan and I left for work.

I pulled into the yard after work to see all the doors and windows open, although it was very cool outside. Puzzled, I walked quickly inside to see Mark setting the table. Wine glasses were filled. Cranberry sauce glistened in their crystal dessert dishes in the candle light. He gave it his best. I saw what I was sure was a mangled pumpkin pie on the counter. The remnants of smoke in the house were barely noticeable, unlike the mashed potatoes on the wall and ceiling. I looked at his bandaged arm and the full garbage can he tried to hide, but he hid both, kissing me gently on the cheek. His cooking skills had not improved since the macaroni and cheese incident, but Mark was not one to let anything get the best of him.

The turkey TV dinners were wonderful by candlelight. It truly was the most special Thanksgiving.

Word Count: 290