graceful he had been on the ice. The ugly duckling became a swan in front of her eyes. But the ice had betrayed him in the end. He had sunk under the ice. It had not held him and let him fly that one last time.
Tears and snow mixed on her face. She gripped Snooper and turned away from the lake. She needed to pack. It was time to get ready to leave.
10
T HE big bird was cold, ugly, and awkward. It lay on the kitchen counter like a lump of lard. It was seven o’clock in the morning, and Claire would rather have been in bed. The stuffing was almost ready to go in the turkey. She had precooked the liver and onions on the stove, then folded in the bread crumbs and water. The resultant mélange wasn’t particularly appetizing, a gray, soggy mess.
Steven had always cooked the turkey—when he was alive. The memory of him in their old kitchen shot through her. Sometimes she missed her dead husband so much the feeling threatened to weaken her knees and tumble her to the floor. She remembered Steven making coffee, humming in the kitchen as he manhandled the turkey into a roaster and slammed it into the oven. He loved cooking big chunks of meat, a beef slab or rack of lamb or humongous turkey.
Claire had bought a twenty-pounder. According to
The Joy of Cooking,
this bird would have to cook at least six hours and then sit for another half hour before you carved it. She figured if she got it in by eight, they could easily eat by four.
Rich said his mother would like to leave by six so she could get home before her bedtime.
Claire reviewed the menu in her mind: she’d done the cranberry molds last night, and they were chilling in the fridge, Bridget would bring the relish, Rich’s mom the chestnut dressing, the turkey would go in soon, Meg would make the pumpkin pie this morning when she got up. Claire had yet to make mashed potatoes, wild rice, and green beans with almonds. She had bought rolls from Le Pain Perdu. They were all set to go. They wouldn’t go hungry, that was for sure.
If only Rich’s mother wasn’t coming. If it wasn’t for that, Claire would be totally relaxed. Come to that, she’d be sleeping. They would have eaten at a more fashionable hour.
The phone rang as she was cramming the stuffing inside the turkey. She knew it could only be one person. “Almost in,” she answered the phone, cradling it on her shoulder so she could keep stuffing.
“You or the turkey?” Rich asked.
Claire laughed. She blessed the man who could make her laugh as she was elbow deep inside a turkey.
“I thought you’d be up.”
“Wish you were here,” she said.
“Will be soon. I’m heading out to get the matriarch. Hope the drive isn’t too bad. It’s supposed to snow all day long, according to the weather station.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“Mom might have to stay with me tonight, if we get too much snow.”
Claire looked out the window. It was still dark out, but under the streetlights she could see how deep the snow was on the road. Everything looked clean and perfect in this almost completely black-and-white landscape.
“Have the snowplows been by on the highway?” she asked him.
“Not yet. But they should be soon. Don’t envy those guys.”
“Drive careful. I hope you don’t get stuck in Rochester with your mom.”
“We’d probably have Spam for dinner. She still has that around as a remnant from the cold-war mentality.”
They said their good-byes and hung up.
Claire faced the turkey. She hoisted it up and plopped it into the roaster. It just fit. It hadn’t even occurred to her that it might not. She smeared it with butter and salted and peppered it. A short prayer for the perfect turkey to save the day. The oven was preheated. In it went.
She grabbed the cardamom roll she had heated in the oven, poured herself another cup of coffee, perched on a stool at her counter, and looked out the window. The snow fell so quietly. Everything glowed in its covering. Light showed faintly in the east,
Tears and snow mixed on her face. She gripped Snooper and turned away from the lake. She needed to pack. It was time to get ready to leave.
10
T HE big bird was cold, ugly, and awkward. It lay on the kitchen counter like a lump of lard. It was seven o’clock in the morning, and Claire would rather have been in bed. The stuffing was almost ready to go in the turkey. She had precooked the liver and onions on the stove, then folded in the bread crumbs and water. The resultant mélange wasn’t particularly appetizing, a gray, soggy mess.
Steven had always cooked the turkey—when he was alive. The memory of him in their old kitchen shot through her. Sometimes she missed her dead husband so much the feeling threatened to weaken her knees and tumble her to the floor. She remembered Steven making coffee, humming in the kitchen as he manhandled the turkey into a roaster and slammed it into the oven. He loved cooking big chunks of meat, a beef slab or rack of lamb or humongous turkey.
Claire had bought a twenty-pounder. According to
The Joy of Cooking,
this bird would have to cook at least six hours and then sit for another half hour before you carved it. She figured if she got it in by eight, they could easily eat by four.
Rich said his mother would like to leave by six so she could get home before her bedtime.
Claire reviewed the menu in her mind: she’d done the cranberry molds last night, and they were chilling in the fridge, Bridget would bring the relish, Rich’s mom the chestnut dressing, the turkey would go in soon, Meg would make the pumpkin pie this morning when she got up. Claire had yet to make mashed potatoes, wild rice, and green beans with almonds. She had bought rolls from Le Pain Perdu. They were all set to go. They wouldn’t go hungry, that was for sure.
If only Rich’s mother wasn’t coming. If it wasn’t for that, Claire would be totally relaxed. Come to that, she’d be sleeping. They would have eaten at a more fashionable hour.
The phone rang as she was cramming the stuffing inside the turkey. She knew it could only be one person. “Almost in,” she answered the phone, cradling it on her shoulder so she could keep stuffing.
“You or the turkey?” Rich asked.
Claire laughed. She blessed the man who could make her laugh as she was elbow deep inside a turkey.
“I thought you’d be up.”
“Wish you were here,” she said.
“Will be soon. I’m heading out to get the matriarch. Hope the drive isn’t too bad. It’s supposed to snow all day long, according to the weather station.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“Mom might have to stay with me tonight, if we get too much snow.”
Claire looked out the window. It was still dark out, but under the streetlights she could see how deep the snow was on the road. Everything looked clean and perfect in this almost completely black-and-white landscape.
“Have the snowplows been by on the highway?” she asked him.
“Not yet. But they should be soon. Don’t envy those guys.”
“Drive careful. I hope you don’t get stuck in Rochester with your mom.”
“We’d probably have Spam for dinner. She still has that around as a remnant from the cold-war mentality.”
They said their good-byes and hung up.
Claire faced the turkey. She hoisted it up and plopped it into the roaster. It just fit. It hadn’t even occurred to her that it might not. She smeared it with butter and salted and peppered it. A short prayer for the perfect turkey to save the day. The oven was preheated. In it went.
She grabbed the cardamom roll she had heated in the oven, poured herself another cup of coffee, perched on a stool at her counter, and looked out the window. The snow fell so quietly. Everything glowed in its covering. Light showed faintly in the east,
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