I am the kind of person who awaits Thanksgiving like a kid waits for Christmas; I live for the turkey and mashed potatoes. Every year, I pull out my grandmother’s yellowed, stained recipe cards, which instantly make my chest feel warm. I buy only real butter and roast garlic until my entire house smells like an Italian restaurant. I brine the turkey for twenty-four hours to impress the Food Network judges. Thanksgiving is my comfort, my connection to my grandma. But to my mother-in-law, Elaine, it is simply a photo opportunity. She loves designer heels, salon blowouts, and whatever new boyfriend she is dating that season.
For the last few years, Elaine developed a cute little habit of “dropping by” before dinner, always leaving with my food. The first time, she took a tray of stuffing, saying, “Sweetheart, you made so much, you won’t even miss it.” The next year, it was a whole pumpkin pie for her book club. Last year, she slipped a single turkey leg into her purse, assuring me I wouldn’t notice. My husband, Eric, would get mad for five minutes, then tell me, “It’s just food, babe, let it go. She’s just like that.” So I let it go, but I never forgot, and this year, I decided my Thanksgiving would be absolutely perfect.
I started cooking on Monday, making pie crusts and pumpkin puree. Tuesday was spent on the pies, casseroles, and sweet potato mash while I sang along to 90s music, my daughter Lily dancing around me. Wednesday was for chopping, slicing, brining, and marinating; I even scrubbed out a cooler just to fit the spa-day turkey. By Thursday morning, exhaustion threatened, but the house smelled like heaven. The turkey went in at 8 a.m. sharp. I mashed potatoes with roasted garlic and whisked gravy until my wrist ached. By 4 p.m., everything was finished, and the table looked like a HomeGoods commercial.
Eric wrapped his arms around my waist from behind. “You outdid yourself this year, babe,” he whispered. Everything felt perfect. We called Lily and our son, Max, to the table, and they were actually excited. As we all sat down, and I picked up my fork, the front door slammed open. “Happy Thanksgiving!” Elaine’s voice cracked through the house. She marched in wearing red lipstick and high heels, clicking like a horse. My stomach plummeted. I asked what she was doing, but she walked straight past me into the kitchen, pulling out my brand-new Tupperware set.
Eric stood up. “Mom? What are you doing?” she was already lifting the turkey off the table. “I need this,” she said, like it was obvious. “My new man is expecting a home-cooked dinner. I didn’t have time. The salon ran late.” I felt my face go hot. “Elaine, stop,” I said. “We’re about to eat. That’s our dinner.” She rolled her eyes and started shoveling my stuffing into a container. “Don’t be stingy,” she said. “You have plenty. Share the wealth.” She grabbed the mashed potatoes next. Then the gravy. Then the green bean casserole. Everything that wasn’t nailed down was being boxed.
I followed her, stepping between her and the stove. “Elaine, that’s enough,” I insisted. “Put the turkey down. You can’t take our entire dinner.” She gave me a tight, fake smile. “Sweetheart, you should be thankful people admire your cooking. This is a compliment.” Eric came in, saying, “Mom, I’m serious. Stop. You’re taking everything.” But she shrugged, dumped the entire turkey into the biggest container, snapped the lids shut, and loaded them into reusable grocery bags she had brought. She drove away with my entire Thanksgiving dinner, leaving me staring at an empty, perfectly set table.
