Life in a Nutshell

Thankfully Yours

I wish my mom a Happy Thanksgiving and we hang up.

I sigh, and face my charge. Sleeves rolled up and a determined look on my face, I wrestle the bird from it's netting and plastic shroud. I'm not squeamish. In fact, I seriously contemplated nursing for a while, but it didn't work out. I don't have any issues dealing with the carcass, or putting my hands where they need to go.

I butter the bird, add garlic and onion to the body cavity and season it liberally, after heaving it into the roasting pan.

The harvest gold, thirty year old oven has seen better days, but it still works. So I open the creaking door, and lower the pan full of turkey onto the lower rack. I shut the door, set the timer for one hour and sigh contentedly.

It was the last time I would sigh in contentment.

An hour passes and it's time to start basting the turkey, so I open the door and do my thing. The door creaks and catches on something and doesn't close correctly. It's a little off kilter, and doesn't shut square to the oven. The door is gapping, and there are still two more hours for my turkey to roast.

I should have cut my losses there, but noooo. I'm a fixer, and problem solver and I need this door to close. Because I need the turkey to come out perfect, and I need to give my hardworking husband a wonderful Thanksgiving dinner.

So I stupidly continue opening and shutting the oven door, reefing on it, trying to get it to close correctly until after a particularly ear splitting screech...

...the door to the oven falls off it's hinges and crashes to the kitchen floor.

I am utterly ruined.

"Oh no, oh no..." What am I going to do? I pick up the thirty pound oven door and try repeatedly to fit it back on the hinges which aren't cooperating, at all. The heat from the oven billows out and brings sweat to my face, setting my cheeks on fire and turning them bright red. I stomp around my kitchen, curse a bit, and throw the baster across the room.

Eventually I start crying tears of frustration which mix with the sweat from my face. My normally voluminous hair starts growing a life of it's own and expands around my head in a sweaty, turkey infused cloud.

I'm sure I'm just a vision of loveliness, as I use my last ditch effort and call my husband at work, from our house phone.

"Scott," I wail when he comes on the line. "The oven door fell off, and I don't know what to do?!"

And being the man he is, he gives me the most profound piece of advice I've ever heard.

"Well put it back on."

"I've tried! It won't go back on."

And in another amazingly sensitive and understanding move, he continues with, "Well, what do you want me to do about it?"

"Can you come home for a minute and help me?"

He finishes with a finale worthy of an award. "Are you kidding? I can't come home right now, I'm in the middle of my shift. Just put it back as best you can. I need to get off the phone."

"Okay, FINE!" I slam the phone down with a satisfying metallic clang from the bell inside, and run my hands through my hair. I wipe my tears and know that unless I figure something out, Thanksgiving is over.

I drag a chair from the breakfast table to the kitchen with one arm. With the other hand I heave the door up and in place over the oven and hold it in place with my hip. Then I prop the chair against the door, under the handle and brace the chair on two legs.

I sigh in relief, as the whole scene stills for a minute and I slowly release my hip from the door. Nothing comes crashing down. "I think I did it." I breathe.

I turn to leave when...screeeech. The chair slides down and the door crashes to the floor again.

"Nooooo," I whisper in defeat, as I dejectedly go over to turn the oven off and toss the half cooked bird. I'm going to have to call our guests and cancel dinner. How awful!

As I'm about to do this, I hear the back door open and my husband strides in like a knight in a shining polo shirt!

He swiftly removes the chair, grabs the turkey and puts it back in the oven. Then with a few deft moves, he re-engages the door on the hinges, and shuts it snugly to the frame. It's all fixed in less than two minutes.

With my mouth hanging open, I stare at my savior and leap into his arms.

"You came! Oh thank you!" I exclaim and cover his face in kisses.

He chuckles at me and grins. He picks me up and spins me around the small kitchen.

"I figured I needed to save my damsel in distress." He kisses me senseless, drags his hand across his lips afterward, like he's just had a drink of cold lemonade, and disappears out the back door.

I swoon. I think perhaps literally. My prince came to save me from the beast in my kitchen, and I've been grateful ever since.

I'm still thankful to be his, now these many years since. And yet, at every Thanksgiving I remember this day and chuckle at my oven.

The oven, which is now a brand new GE Profile convection range, with a glass top, self-cleaning feature and a partridge in a pear tree.

No oven malfunctions for me. Thank you very much.