My domain has always been Thanksgiving. By no means am I claiming to be Martha Stewart, but the turkey? My masterpiece is that.
I was therefore taken aback when my spouse of six years, Jake, said he would be taking charge this year.
He said, “This year, I’m cooking the turkey,” with a confident tone, during dinner one evening.
“I’ve got a secret recipe, Jen…”
I gave him a smile, but something in his use of the word “secret” made my stomach turn.
“Alright,” I said in a lighthearted manner. “I might do my nails and put my feet up. Please let me know if you require any assistance.
“I won’t,” he snapped back.
Too soon.
“This is going to be special.”
Jake has always wanted to make an impression. At work, with his friends, and most importantly, with his mom. Furthermore, Patricia is the kind of woman who takes offense at praise. The Mona Lisa, she might say, is “a little boring.”
Jake was in a state of possession on the morning of Thanksgiving. I was forced to leave the kitchen before I could even pour my coffee since he had gotten up early to prepare.
He chirped, “I’ve got it under control,”
Patricia arched a doubtful eyebrow while sitting at the counter with her ubiquitous glass of wine.
“Jen, are you sure this is a good idea?” With an air of fake concern in her voice, she asked me. “You’ve always done the turkey so well.”
I whispered, “It’ll be fine,” more to myself than to her.
Jake brought our Thanksgiving centerpiece out of the kitchen a few hours later. It looked flawless, to his credit. Glistening and golden-brown, it looks like it belongs in a food blog or magazine. He had even prepared a thick gravy, cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes, and roasted vegetables.
My mother gave a hearty clap. Patricia cocked her head, examining it like a jeweler would examine a gem.
“It smells amazing!” exclaimed my mother.
Jake was delighted as he cut the first slice as we sat around the table. Plates were handed, music was played, and soon everyone was getting a share. I started eating mine, expecting to be surprised by how good it was.
I gagged as soon as it reached my tongue.
“What the…?” I reached for my water and coughed.
It wasn’t savory. It wasn’t turkey-like at all. It was delightful. Claiming to have been drizzled with melted caramel or something, it was cloyingly sweet.
I managed to say, “Jake,” as I gaped at him. “What is this?”
Patricia, in the middle of chewing, theatrically spat hers into a napkin.
“Ah, Jake. Oh no.
Jake’s cheeks turned red.
On the defensive, he exclaimed, “It’s a glaze!” “Mallow fluff, maple syrup, and brown sugar. It’s not the same! It’s imaginative!”
“Creative?” I repeated. “It tastes like someone dropped a turkey in a vat of something at Willy Wonka’s factory.”
There was silence in the room. Steven, my brother-in-law, choked back a chuckle. My mother feigned concentration while eating her mashed potatoes. Never one to pass up a chance, Patricia let out a big sigh and shook her head.
“Jake, this is the reason we don’t tamper with tradition. Jen has been the turkey girl ever since you were married. Jake, tradition. custom.”
Her remark made Jake’s jaw tighten, but he said nothing. His fingers flicked for the bottle of wine, and I saw it. As if he wanted to go for it and use some traditional fermented grapes to block off the embarrassment.
I stayed behind to clean the kitchen after Jake had gone to the den to lick his wounds and the majority of our guests had left.
“Don’t worry about it, honey,” I replied. “You relax there, and I’ll see you shortly. We enjoy pumpkin pie with cold whipped cream, so I put one in the cupboard earlier.
I tried to be polite. to assist him in realizing that it had been an error and that there was nothing wrong with that.
I noticed a crumpled piece of paper while I was throwing scraps in the trash. I smoothed it out out of curiosity and saw a scribbled recipe.
The name at the bottom of the page made my heart race.
Sarah.
Sarah. Jake’s ex-wife.
As I gazed at the card, my hands began to shake. Why in the world would Jake pick her out of everyone he could have consulted for a recipe, including Google searches? In an attempt to make connections between things I didn’t want to see, my mind worked nonstop.
With the recipe card in my hand like proof, I barged into the living room. Jake’s face was pale when he looked up from his replay of the football game.
“Care to explain this?” My voice was colder than I meant when I asked.
Jake straightened his posture.
“Jean, I just wanted to create something unique. Before she started catering, Sarah worked as a cook. I also assumed she would come up with some clever suggestions for me.
“You thought Sarah would have the answer?” I broke off, raising my voice. “Not me, your wife, the person who has been cooking almost all of your meals, Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners included, for years?”
Jake’s mouth parted, then shut again. He had no answer, for once.
He finally said, “I just… I didn’t want to mess up,” in a voice that was just audible above a whisper. “I assumed you would take over if I asked because you’re so skilled at it. I wanted to demonstrate my ability to work alone.
“And you couldn’t just ask me for a little help?” I lost my temper. “Not even my recommendations? You visited your ex-wife instead?
Jake flinched.
“Jen, it wasn’t like that…”
“No?” I retorted. “Then what was it like?”
That night, while I lay there looking at the ceiling, my thoughts kept going in circles. Jake’s justification seemed flimsy. What did it say about us that he was too insecure to ask me for help with a turkey?
Sarah, too?
Why her?
Was she really the best choice for him, or was there another reason? If I’m being completely honest, everyone says that you never forget your first love.
Jake came up to me the following morning carrying a piece of pumpkin pie and a mug of coffee.
Softly, “I’m sorry,” he said. “I truly apologize, my love. I didn’t think. I messed up royally since I only wanted to please everyone.
I nodded, maintaining my composure as I had told myself all night. My thoughts were racing over the possibilities, making it difficult for me to fall asleep.
“Jake, I can appreciate your desire to win people over. The truth is, though, you might want to start with your spouse the next time you need sound advise. For the record, too? Sarah ruined your plans. This recipe? It was simply retaliation, unless it was for some hideously sweet cereal treat.
Jake’s mouth fell wide as he blinked.
“You think…”
“Oh, I don’t think, Jake,” I firmly stated. “I know.”
With a grunt, he sank into the closest chair.
“Goodness, I’m such an idiot.”
For the remainder of Thanksgiving weekend, Jake was unable to look me in the eye. Even after his two more apologies, the skepticism persisted. The moment I discovered that recipe card and the expression on his face when I confronted him kept coming back to me.
Naturally, Patricia fanned the flames. Naturally, she had heard everything as she was spending the weekend with us.
“Well, at least he learned his lesson,” she said, taking a smug sip of her own wine.
Leaving Patricia and me alone to analyze the whole turkey disaster, Jake had made the decision to take our dog for a stroll.
“Do you really think he went to her for help?” My mother-in-law was questioned. “That there is nothing else going on?”
“Sarah cheated on him, darling. It can’t be anything else because she destroyed his small heart. I believe our stupid man reached out to the only other person he knew well in an attempt to impress the women in his life.
“I’m doubting everything.” Taking Patricia’s glass of wine and sipping it, I confessed.
“He loves you, Jen. Sometimes he’s simply a little dumb. But go ahead, sweetheart, if you believe that a more significant and significant discussion is necessary. Take action.
I gave a nod.
I was worn out by Sunday night, both mentally and physically. There was more to the Thanksgiving turkey than just a terrible flavor. Something I believed to be solid developed fractures as a result.
In all honesty, I’m not sure if I’ll ever be able to completely trust Jake’s judgment again. In every way, not only in the kitchen. And those misgivings persisted as we laid in bed that night despite his gentle apology.
I’m still here for now. However, I can’t get rid of the feeling that something changed this Thanksgiving and that it’s difficult to put things back together once they break.
What would you have done?
