Brandon wasn’t sure why his dad’s number lit up his phone screen on a Monday night, but he knew better than to ignore it. When Garth Stewart called, it was either a quick check-in or the start of a philosophical rant on “how Thanksgiving used to be” that could last hours.
Brandon tapped the screen. “Hey, Dad. Everything okay?”
“Brandon, good! Just wanted to touch base on Thanksgiving,” Garth said, his voice echoing with enthusiasm, the kind that often spurred Brandon’s own enthusiasm to wane. “Thinking we keep it simple this year. Just you, me, and Laura—none of the craziness of last year.”
“Oh, yeah? What do you have in mind?”
“Well,” Garth lowered his voice conspiratorially, “I’m thinking we fry the turkey this year.”
Brandon stifled a laugh. He knew his dad wasn’t exactly the “fry the turkey” type. Garth’s culinary experiments typically involved either burning toast or somehow finding a way to undercook spaghetti. This felt ambitious.
“Fried turkey, huh?” Brandon said, trying to sound serious. “That’s bold. What brought this on?”
“Well, Laura’s sister’s husband’s brother—you remember him, Carl with the beard—he’s always going on about frying a turkey. ‘It’s the only way to eat turkey,’ he says. And I figured, why not? Laura’s on board. Aren’t you, honey?” Garth’s voice drifted as he directed the question toward the background, where Laura was evidently brewing her evening coffee.
“Totally on board, Garth,” Laura replied, her voice neutral and detached, as if she were nodding along to a lecture on 19th-century farming practices. “Fried turkey sounds… exciting.”
Exciting was not the word Brandon would’ve picked. Dangerous, maybe. Or combustible.
“So,” Garth continued, ignoring the half-hearted support from his wife, “we’ll keep it cozy this year. I’ll handle the turkey, Laura’s making her famous sweet potato casserole, and I think we’ll just sit around and watch some football. Not too much fuss, you know?”
Brandon tried to imagine his father managing a bubbling vat of oil in his narrow backyard while narrating the whole process with tales of “back in my day.” He pictured Garth explaining to the neighbors, who’d no doubt be gathering to see if the scene would turn disastrous, that he “knew his way around a flame.”
“Sounds… well, like something,” Brandon said, trying to keep a straight tone. “Just make sure you have a fire extinguisher, yeah?”
“Oh, come on, Brandon,” Garth chuckled, his pride a little stung. “I’m a high school counselor, for crying out loud. I can handle a turkey fryer.”
Brandon refrained from reminding him that the last time he tried to handle a turkey fryer, they’d had to sandblast the garage wall. “I believe in you, Dad,” he said diplomatically.
“And Laura’s got this whole Pinterest board of Thanksgiving ‘ambiance’ ideas,” Garth went on, his voice turning quieter. “I think she wants to keep it festive, you know? Soft lights, table settings… the works.”
“Ambiance is one word for it,” Laura said, sounding as though she had just now noticed that Garth had committed them to this venture.
Brandon tried not to laugh. He knew his stepmother well enough to recognize the mild irritation in her voice when Garth tried to “keep things interesting” with holiday plans. But then again, a solo Thanksgiving with just the three of them was probably the calmest holiday they’d had in years. There’d be no Roberto in his too-tight turtlenecks or his mom Jazlyn with her stories of outlandish pranks. And no Damarae with his love-hate relationship with local law enforcement.
“Sounds… relaxing,” Brandon said, leaning into the charm of the low-key Thanksgiving idea.
“That’s the plan!” Garth said, sounding satisfied. “Just good food and family. I think Laura wants to get one of those, what do you call it? Charcuterie boards?”
“Really?” Brandon’s eyebrow raised involuntarily, trying to imagine his dad and Laura grazing on fancy cheeses and meats.
“Yes, really,” Laura cut in, her voice clearer now. “It’s not that hard to make a plate look nice, Brandon. I’ll even put those little breadsticks on it—you like those, don’t you?”
“Can’t say no to a breadstick,” Brandon replied, amused. “Sounds perfect, guys.”
“Anyway,” Garth continued, “we’ll handle the food. You just come hungry, and we’ll make sure everything’s ready. I’ve got it under control.”
Brandon wondered briefly if anyone could actually control Garth’s Thanksgiving aspirations. But he let it go. There’d be plenty of time for alarm bells once the fryer was fired up.
“Looking forward to it, Dad,” Brandon said, deciding it was better to leave his questions unasked. “I’ll see you guys soon.”
As he hung up, Brandon let out a sigh. So far, this Thanksgiving was shaping up to be one of the tamest. But he knew better than to trust his luck; with Garth and Laura involved, anything could change in an instant.
Leave a comment