Off the Menu Page 11

  I can’t help but laugh, because the man speaks the truth. “It’s why I stopped doing yoga. My sphincter couldn’t take it.”

  “Exactly. Have a good rubdown. What are you doing tomorrow?”

  “Dunno. Dog park, laundry, some work, try to check in on the folks. You?”

  “I have a meeting.”

  “Anything fun?”

  His eyes twinkle in a mischievous way that chills my blood. “Maybe. We shall see. I’ll let you know soon.”

  Aw, crap. This is going to bite me in the ample behind sometime in the near future, I can just feel it. “Okay, well, I hope it goes well, whatever it is.”

  “I’m sure it will.” He gets up, kisses the top of my head, and leaves. I sigh, and pay the bill. Patrick may be generous with health insurance, but he is a notorious skinflint when it comes to the nickels and dimes, and I am forever paying for his lunch and coffee and snacks, grabbing him a paper, picking up bottles of water. Andrea finally told me to just save the receipts and give them to her, and she expenses them and gets me reimbursement checks from the production company. I love Andrea. But even though I’m no longer personally out-of-pocket, it still ticks me off.

  Lucky for me, I now have an hour-long massage ahead in which to become unpissed. I am a little concerned though … that extra granola breakfast followed by coffee doesn’t exactly bode well for getting through it without possibly perforating my colon from gas suppression.

  10

  I’d like to propose a toast!” Patrick raises his glass from the head of my parents’ dining room table. Or tables. My parents have cobbled together from the regular dining room table, the kitchen table, and three card tables of various shapes and stability, a place for the family to gather for Thanksgiving. Eighteen of us, including Maria and Patrick.

  It is the first time Patrick has joined us for Thanksgiving. Usually he gets adopted by another local chef, but this year one of his New York investors had invited him for a Hamptons Thanksgiving, so he turned down all other invitations. And then Chicago got slammed with a snowstorm, and his flight got delayed and delayed and delayed and delayed and then cancelled. Of course, because he was bored hanging out at the Admiral’s Club all day, he called me every ten minutes. Nothing more convenient when trying to help your family cook Thanksgiving dinner with six children tearing through the house, than your boss calling to ask, “What are you doing now?” forty-two thousand times. Then when his flight got cancelled, he called to say he was on his way. Not to ask if he could come, or if there was room at the table, or if we wouldn’t mind. Just called and said, “Tell Mama the prodigal adopted Irish son is en route!” Fanfreakingtastic.

  Mama was, of course, thrilled. “So goot to have my Patreeck for Thanksgiving.”

  Maria showed up early to wrangle kids and keep them out of the kitchen, bringing the one dish she cooks better than anyone I know, a truly spectacular flan. “Don’ you worrrrry, mi amorrrrr. Patrick will behave ’imself. With all these ninos, no one will notice him!”

  I was surprised by how annoyed I was with him, at the presumptuousness of it. My sister, Natalia, called me out on it.

  “What’s the big deal, Lana?” she said, extricating her slim leg from the grasp of Alexei’s youngest, eighteen-month-old Jon, and pushing him toward the door to the den where Maria and the rest of the kids were watching Toy Story 3. “Wouldn’t you have invited him anyway if he hadn’t invited himself? I mean, what? Were you going to just let him go home and be alone?” Nat is the opposite of me, tall and slender with bone-straight light brown hair, and a clavicle to kill for. I know I have a clavicle by virtue of my neck not flopping around like wet spaghetti, but I’m pretty sure no one has ever actually spotted evidence thereof. Nat’s clavicle is like a little poem.

  “Who’s going to be alone?” Sasha’s wife, Jenny, wanders in and sneaks a piece of crusty stuffing from the corner of the casserole dish, while Nat slaps her hand away. Jenny is short and round, like me and Mama, but with the creamy fair skin and water-blue eyes that come with her English and Swedish background. She looks like a milkmaid, and is about the calmest, most patient person I have ever met. Which is good, because her three boys are darling, but high-maintenance. The oldest, Benjamin, has some really weird food issues, and there are only about six things he will willingly consume, making Jenny play magic chef, constantly trying to sneak nutrition into things that look and taste like the handful of things he likes. Their middle son, Jacob, is about the smartest kid I’ve ever met, and as a result is endlessly curious, asking eight million questions a minute with machine-gun precision. And their youngest, Adam, has discovered a passion for taking things apart, so if Jenny turns her back for a minute, the phone is in sixty pieces all over the floor.

  “Patrick invited himself to dinner and Alana is pissed.” Alexei’s wife, Sara, like all accountants, is brief and to the point. She and Alexei met in a study group for their CPA exams. She does a little bit of freelance tax work from home for a couple of her friends, and occasionally helps Alexei with larger projects from his firm, but mostly she manages their boys’ schedules. Alex, the oldest, and David, the youngest, are both athletes, so there are endless games to shuttle to and more stinky laundry than any one person should have to wrangle. Joshie, the middle son, seems to take up a new passion every three months or so, mostly in the sciences, and loves all the local museums. He knows his way around the Adler Planetarium, Shedd Aquarium, and the Museum of Science and Industry better than some of the staff, and is always begging someone to take him to one or another. Last week I picked him up from school and we did the Field Museum of Natural History. Joshie regaled me with the life of Australopithecus Africanus as casually if he were describing an episode of SpongeBob. I know aunts aren’t supposed to play favorites, but Joshie holds a very special, quirky place in my heart.

  “I still don’t understand,” Nat says. “Would you or would you not have invited him to dinner once you found out his flight was cancelled?” Nat is solo today, her husband, Jeff, took their girls to the burbs to have dinner with his family, and will hopefully get back here in time for some dessert. Nat and her in-laws do not really get along very well. And Jeff isn’t Jewish, so she gets stuck with extended command performances for Christmas and Easter. Jeff and the girls alternate Thanksgiving between our family and his, but for the sake of Natalia’s sanity, she gets excused from Thanksgiving in Winnetka, ostensibly to help Mom. Anytime they get pissy about it, he reminds them that they get their grandchildren every Christmas and it shuts them up.

  “Of course I would have invited him.”

  “So what’s the problem?” Sara asks.

  “He didn’t give her a chance to invite him; he invited himself, which takes away Alana’s ability to feel good about inviting him. It was presumptuous and a little rude, am I right?” Jenny says, sort of nailing it.

  “Exactly. There is just something that irks me about his not giving me the chance to be generous. And what if it would not have been a good idea for him to be here? He also didn’t give me a chance to apologize for not being able to accommodate him, if that had been the case. He just made a pronouncement, and the rest of us have to obey His Majesty.”

  “I think you are wasting too much time and energy on it. The bottom line is that he is welcome; there is no reason for him not to be here, so either way, Patrick was going to be coming to dinner. So why on earth would you let your day get ruined? If the answer is nine, does it really matter if you get there by adding five and four or multiplying three by three?” Sara, turning everything into a black-and-white math equation.

  Mama comes into the kitchen. “Table for eighteen, now. Goot luck. Chai.” Eighteen is a sacred Jewish number, since the word chai, or life, adds up to eighteen. I got at least two dozen checks for eighteen dollars when I was bat mitzvahed. Mama is beaming, and I know that it makes her very happy that Patrick is coming. And Sara is right. I love this holiday, and letting something as stupid as the way Patrick weaseled into it bug me
only hurts me. I vow to shake it off, and turn to take the cranberry sauce out of the fridge to take the chill off.

  The last half hour before Thanksgiving dinner is an exercise in true brigade cooking. Sara takes on the mashed potatoes, which are really only perfect if made at the last minute, and lucky for us all, her potatoes are killer. Full of butter and cream and sour cream and chives, perfectly smooth and creamy and addictive. Jenny transfers cooked and cold dishes to pretty plates, garnishing as appropriate, and makes sure proper serving pieces are attached. Nat arranges the buffet dishes as she receives them while I carve the turkey and Mama makes the gravy. I am just putting the last slices of breast meat on the platter and basting the whole platter with a bit of butter emulsified into turkey stock, and spooning the juices that have gathered in the cutting board over the meat so that it all stays wonderfully moist, when I hear the doorbell, followed by loud, happy noises of greeting in the front room. Himself has arrived, and made some sort of entrance.

  I bring the platter of turkey out, place it at the head of the buffet, and Mama follows with the old pockmarked pewter gravy boat. Patrick makes a beeline for my mom, kissing her on both cheeks. “Mama! Do you believe I had to order this horrible weather just so I could come be with you for Thanksgiving?” Give me a break. He surveys the room and the buffet. “You did not strike the mud with your face, Mama.” I hate that he now knows enough parent-speak to throw her own weird saying at her like an expert. She laughs, blushes, and slaps his arm.

  “Eet is Alana. By myself? It would be to break up some firewood.” I know it is in English, but frankly I have no idea what the hell they are saying to each other. He turns to me after I put the cranberry sauce next to the turkey.

  “Alana-chicana.” He kisses the top of my head, and then looks me up and down, taking in my chocolate brown corduroy skirt, pale blue cashmere V-neck sweater, and brown boots. My hair is down, and due to lack of humidity is actually behaving, settling into ringlets instead of frizz. I have my contacts in for a change, and am wearing a little makeup. “You look adorable. I forget that you’re a girl.” Great, thanks. “It’s nice to see you out of the cargo pants and ponytail! And who knew you had those blue eyes under those glasses?” He’s such a shit. We have been to more black-tie events than professional prom chaperones, and he always says the exact same thing. Usually right before he disappears to put his hand up the designer skirt of some set of Legs.

  “I clean up okay,” I say, biting back the “Fuck you” that is rising in my throat.

  “You do, at that.” He tugs my elbow and pulls me into the little nook between the kitchen and hallway. “Hey, honey, I just wanted to really thank you for letting me crash your holiday. I know it is probably a pain in the ass, and not what you were hoping for, but it really means a lot to me that you let me come.”

  I can feel myself soften. “It’s okay. We never would have let you spend it alone.”

  “Well, alone isn’t the issue, my phone was blowing up with offers all day, but I really needed to be somewhere I knew the food would be good. You know how it is with Thanksgiving. If the meal is disappointing it just sticks with you till Christmas! Remember when I went to Bob’s house that year and they didn’t have mashed potatoes? Or that ghastly deep-fried turkey? Plus, you know how crazy I am about food safety. Thanksgiving is a hotbed of potential food poisoning. Undercooked turkey, stuffing cooked in the bird just breeding bacteria, children of unknown hygiene touching the yams with their germy fingers. I knew you’d have everything perfect, delicious, and e-coli free.” My neck spasms. He’s here because of the flipping food. Not because he wants to spend the holiday with warm and welcoming people who have always treated him like family. Not because my sweet mama always calls him zeen, the Yiddish word for “son,” and tries to be a surrogate mother to him, knowing he never really had one. Not because I am probably closer to him than any human being on the planet, and who else would he turn to on a day like today. Nope. Sir Conlon just wanted to guarantee he didn’t end up somewhere with dry turkey and gluey gravy, or a serious case of the shits. Unbelievable.

  “Glad to be of service. Want to grab a plate and we’ll get you fed?” I give up.

  My siblings get their gaggle of munchkins settled at the kids’ end of the table with their plates, cutting things up into bite-size pieces, and filling glasses and sippy cups with milk and apple juice. Maria and Patrick are sent through the line as honored guests. I always go last; it is the nature of the chef to want to stand back, watch people pick and choose, hear the people who are already tucking in moan and groan in delight. In my pocket, I feel my phone vibrate. I have a text message.

  Hope u r having a wonderful day with ur family, full of delicious & happy. I just wanted u 2 know that I’m thankful 4 having begun 2 get acquainted with u, & that I’m very much looking forward 2 Sat. nite. If u get home at a reasonable hour & r inclined, feel free 2 give me a call. RJ

  And suddenly, every ounce of ick I was feeling melts away. I quickly text back.

  Just getting ready 2 eat, all is good. Hope your day is quiet & happy. Am thankful 4 meeting u 2, & also looking forward 2 Sat. Will call when I get home. A

  “To this wonderful family, who are so generous and special.” Patrick is standing, glass raised, and everyone is quiet, even the kids. “I am very blessed to know each and every one of you, and I am very thankful for your company and your hospitality. And I am especially thankful for Alana, without whom I wouldn’t be half the success or half the man that I am. Alana, I love you and want you to know that I am infinitely better for having you in my life, and I thank you for all you do for me personally and professionally. Cheers.”

  Everyone clinks glasses, Patrick makes important eye contact with me, and my mother beams and my father glowers suspiciously. Maria winks at me, takes a mouthful of stuffing, and rolls her eyes in ecstasy. The next forty minutes are a festival of soul eating. I know many immigrant families incorporate their traditional dishes into the Thanksgiving feast, but not my folks. Our menu is Norman Rockwell on crack. Turkey with gravy. Homemade cranberry relish and the jellied stuff from the can. Mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes with marshmallows, green bean casserole. Cornbread stuffing and buttery yeast rolls. The only nods to our heritage are mustard-seed pickled carrots and dill-cucumber salad, to have something cool and palate-cleansing on the plate. A crazy layered Jell-O dish, with six different colors in thin stripes, looking like vintage Bakelite.

  Jeff and the girls show up just in time for desserts … apple pie, pumpkin pie, pecan bars, cheesecake brownies, and Maria’s flan. He and Nat share a long hug and deep kiss, which tells me that he has had a long, clenched sort of day, and is ready to finally relax. Their girls, Lia and Rachel, are in matching pink frilly dresses and black patent Mary Janes, and the way that Nat is admiring them through gritted teeth tells me that this is not what she dressed them in before they headed to their grandparents’ house.

  We believe that Thanksgiving is as much about leftovers as the meal, so the extra fridge in the garage is already filled with bags prepacked with smaller versions of the complete meal already set to go. Mama and I roasted a second turkey yesterday, and we made double batches of everything, filling endless disposable plastic containers and making up the bags for everyone except me, as I will pack my own bag from the actual leftovers from tonight’s meal.

  After dinner, Patrick insists on being in charge of cleanup, and dons Mama’s apron and a pair of yellow rubber gloves, much to the delight of the kids, whom he recruits for drying and putting-away duty. Mama and Papa relax in the den, a little worn-out from all the tumult, while my siblings break down the massive table arrangement, and get the folding chairs back into the attic. Maria and I pack up the rest of the food.

  “’E is funny with the ninos,” she muses. “Verrrrry much on their level! Maybe he would come do a guest class with the after-school prrrrrrogram.”

  I think about this. “It’s actually a good idea. I’ll ask him this week. Did you find
a teacher yet?”

  “Yes, Melanie’s partner, Kai, is going to teach the first group. ’E has been with her since the beginning, so ’e knows all about the nutrition.”

  “I’ve met him, he’s amazing. And I think his energy will be perfect for the kids. Very smart. When do the classes start?”

  “Januarrrrry. Thursday afternoons. Patrrrrick can do any class he wants from Febrrruary on.”

  “I’ll get it on his schedule.”

  Patrick starts to chant like a deranged drill sergeant. “And, WIPE the front until it shines! Then WIPE the back like your own behinds!” Patrick is singing and conducting the six kids who are old enough to wield dish towels, all of whom are collapsing in laughter at his naughty song. “Make sure it’s dry, or I’ll tell you what! Your aunt Alana will kick your butt!”

  I shake my head, and Maria laughs.

  “You ’ave to admit, ’e has his moments!” She puts an arm around me and squeezes. I squeeze back.

  “He certainly does.” Pity they are few and far between.

  Once things are cleaned up, the crowd disperses quickly. The kids are all punchy and past their bedtimes, Maria is determined to go home and do an hour on the elliptical before bed, and Patrick whispers in my ear that a certain young actress with whom he had a brief fling at the South Beach food and wine festival is apparently also stuck in town, and in need of entertaining.

  But it doesn’t faze me. I am eager to get home and walk Dumpling, and call RJ and hear his voice. And that eagerness is something I find that I am actually thankful for, and for the first time, not nervous about.

  When I get home, Dumpling is sitting in his little bed, looking sort of odd, and not jumping up to greet me the way he usually does. As I get closer, I can see that all of the white fur sections on his little head are a strange orange color.

  “Dumpling …”

  I see a small spot on the rug. I lean down and touch it. It is damp and a little sticky, and leaves an orange smear on my finger. I gingerly sniff it.