Hamburgers for Thanksgiving?, Page 2

Since I couldn’t proceed with this recipe until closer to dinner time, I started making the next recipe on my list: Candied Mandarin Oranges with Cranberries.

  The instructions for this recipe were pretty simple: peel the oranges, boil sugar and water together, add elderflower liqueur and oranges, then let the mixture soak overnight. Oh. Crap. I didn’t have overnight; I had about five hours until dinner. Well, I decided that surely it won’t hurt to cut the soaking time down.

  Twenty minutes later, I had a pan of oranges soaking up the elderflower sauce and I had moved on to the Roasted Corn with Manchego and Lime. There were no nasty surprises with this recipe, and the dish looked beautiful in my grandmother’s white oval china bowl. I sat the bowl in one of my upper kitchen cabinets and shut the door. Given how this morning had gone so far, I wanted to make sure to keep at least this side dish safe.

  Martha dragged herself into the kitchen to have some coffee. “How’s the cooking going? I see the place hasn’t caught on fire yet,” she said.

  I thought about all the things that had gone wrong this morning. I didn’t want to admit that I was having problems and had no desire to hear “I told you so”, yet if I said everything was fine, she’d realize I was lying. I am a terrible liar. One time in grade school I tried the old “my dog ate my homework lie” and ended up with a word salad - my grandfather’s house had been abducted by dogs and my homework was eaten by aliens.

  “Things could be better. But, I’ll still have dinner ready by two,” I said.

  Martha threw her coffee grounds into the garbage bin and laughed at the pile of towels topped by a shiny, raw turkey. “Could be better? It doesn’t really look like things could be worse.”

  I huffed and went over to the dining area to set the table. I still had a couple hours to go before I could continue cooking, and I planned on using that time to take a shower and grab a quick bite to eat. Maybe more Irish coffee would be a good idea too.

  The next step for my soufflé was to blend the roux and fish together in a food processor. I placed all the ingredients into the food processor bowl and turned it on. Bangs and sparks emitted from the base of the food processor. I yanked the power cord out of the socket and stared at the smoking appliance in disbelief. Was I cursed?

  With a sigh, I poured the unprocessed mixture into a mixing bowl. I dug around in the utensils drawer looking for our potato masher. It wouldn’t be as smooth as the food processor, but it was the only thing I could think of to use. I didn’t want to throw it away and admit defeat, again. I mashed the fish as best as I could by hand and hoped it would still work.

  Before beating the egg whites in my stand mixer, I sent up a prayer asking for a little bit of a miracle. Mostly, I was just hoping that the mixer didn’t fly apart. The recipe said it should take about three to five minutes for the egg whites to come to a soft peak. While the mixer was whipping the eggs, I put the crust in the oven and set the timer.

  My once-clean kitchen was a mess. I had a pile of dirty dishes in the sink, an almost overflowing garbage bin, orange peels in a pile on the counter, drawers and cabinet doors standing open, and the doorbell was ringing constantly. Was it time for my friends to arrive already? I let Martha deal with our guests while I started tidying up the kitchen. I put the dirty dishes in the dishwasher, replaced the garbage bag, and closed the doors and drawers.

  When I finally remembered my egg whites, they had been over-beaten and had turned into liquid again. I started over with new egg whites, this time setting a timer for three minutes so this wouldn’t happen again. My oven timer beeped to let me know that my soufflé crust was baked. Smoke poured out of the oven when I pulled the door open. My crust was not golden brown and fluffy; it was black and smoking.

  I checked the recipe to see what I had done wrong. The crust was only supposed to bake for fifteen minutes. I threw out the crust, the lumpy fish mixture, and the beautifully beaten egg whites. The number of dishes that we would not be eating had risen again: from two to three.

  Roasted corn and candied oranges weren't going to be enough food for eight people. I walked over to the pantry to see what else I could cook, stuff that even I couldn’t ruin, when I heard an explosion from the garbage bag sitting next to the bin. The bag was on fire.

  I started screaming at the top of my lungs and then burst into tears. We didn’t have a fire extinguisher in the house. Martha ran in to the kitchen, saw the fire, called 911 on her cell phone, and dragged me out of the kitchen. One of my friends grabbed my cat and ran outside., Martha’s boyfriend, John, made sure Rufus was in the back yard, as everyone else ran outside.

  Sirens wailed and lights flashed as a fire engine raced down the street to our house. Within minutes, the firefighters had put out the blaze; the only damage was in the kitchen. The firefighters explained to us that vegetable oils produce heat as they dry. That heat caused the towels to spontaneously combust. We were told that next time we need to dispose of oil soaked towels, we should either lay them flat to dry or put them in an airtight container. Even a tied off garbage bag allows air to mix with the heat coming off the oil.

  The kitchen was still usable, but Martha decided it was time to put me out of my misery and look for an open restaurant. We ended up having burgers and fries at a little mom and pop hamburger joint. Despite the culinary disasters, thanks to a good sense of humor and even better friends, it turned out to be my best Thanksgiving ever.

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  About the author

  Marlene has been a passionate reader for most of her life. She won several summer reading programs as a child and her lifelong habit of reading has greatly influenced her writing style. Marlene has had several careers, including Linux system administration, paralegal, legal secretary, drive-thru order taker, and is currently a freelance writer working from home.

  Marlene is a graduate of Tarrant County College, loves cats, knitting, good music, cooking, and playing video games. She resides with her husband and an assortment of cats in Cleburne, Texas.

  Candy Dish: 500 Word Stories to Tickle Your Frontal Lobe

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