Chapter 6 #2
I held up my hand in protest. “Don’t worry about it. I also like wine. I’m not picky at all. I just have no idea how long you’re supposed to let wine breathe.”
“If only there was a thing we could look up such questions,” Kira said with a teenage eye roll before picking up her phone from the counter. “Google, how long should you let red wine breathe in a decanter?”
Google kicked alive and her robotic voice filled the room.
“Zealously swirl the wine and let it rest for twenty minutes in the wineglass. This is sufficient time to open up any tannic red wine. If you plan on drinking more thane glass, pour the wine into a decanter and let it breathe for roughly two hours. The longer aeration period will soften the wine’s strong tannin flavor. ”
“Two hours!” Greta exclaimed.
I laughed. “I think it’s just a suggestion. And I mean, technically, you’re having one glass, I’m having one glass, and Kira’s having one glass—”
“Half a glass,” Greta corrected.
“Either way, it said twenty minutes for one glass. So we can give it another ten minutes or so then we should be good.”
She picked up the decanter and handed it to me. “Swirl it. It can’t hurt, right?”
That made me laugh, but I did as I was told and swirled the wine in the decanter while she puttered in the kitchen.
The turkey was already resting on top of the stove under foil, but it looked like she was the kind of cook who made her stuffing in a casserole dish.
Not actually inside the turkey—which was how I preferred it, anyway.
I loved the crispy edges, and it also guaranteed that the stuffing would actually be cooked through.
One year—the first year after my parents split—my dad decided he was going to cook a turkey for the first time.
My dad, Cameron and I all got horrendous food poisoning because my dad didn’t cook the turkey all the way through and the stuffing had raw turkey juice all through it.
She also had homemade cranberry sauce, roasted Brussels sprouts, roasted yams and what looked like a green bean casserole. It was a lot of food for three people. Good thing I hadn’t eaten anything all day in preparation.
Or maybe that was because of the nerves I felt leading up to this evening, and having to be so close to Greta, in her home, and burning an unsnuffable flame for the woman.
“Is your mashed potato recipe an old family recipe or did you just go with what had the most and best reviews on Google?” she asked, poking a fork into a halved brussels sprout after opening the oven and pulling out the pan. Apparently, it needed a few more minutes.
“Well, I’ve tried Anthony Bourdain’s recipe—”
“May he rest in peace,” she said quickly.
I placed my hand over my heart and nodded.
“May he rest in peace.” Goddammit, she was just making herself more irresistible.
Fuck. “Anyway,” I cleared my throat and told my dick to calm the hell down, “but it was just too much freaking butter. I also like roasted garlic in my mashed potatoes. My mom uses Boursin in hers, which is great, but I went with the tried-and-true butter, whipping cream, roasted garlic, salt, pepper and parsley—for garnish the way my nan used to do.”
She smiled at me. “My gran always sprinkled dried parsley on top of her mashed potatoes too. I do it as well as in homage to her. I thought I was the only one.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake. I couldn’t catch a break.
“I think the wine has been zealously swirled enough,” Kira said, having been busy washing dishes at the sink, quietly listening to our exchange.
“Right.” I put the decanter down on the island.
“Glasses are already at the table,” Greta said, lifting her chin in the direction of the table. Her hands were covered in turkey as she’d started to carve it.
I made myself useful and filled up two glasses, then poured a little bit into a third, setting it by Kira.
“Thank you,” Greta said, her hands shiny with turkey juice. “Are you a white meat or dark meat person?”
“I’m not picky.”
“Gun to your head though,” Kira said, “which would you choose?”
“What kind of weird interrogation is this?” I asked, prompting them both to giggle.
“The most serious kind,” Greta shot back.
“Fine, I’m a white-meat guy. But I’m honestly good with whatever.”
“I like white meat for the proper turkey dinner, but then the dark meat for potpies. It adds more flavor and moisture.”
I nodded. “Yeah, that makes sense.”
Before I thought too hard about what I was doing and why, I brought Greta’s wineglass up to her lips so she could take a sip. Her blue gaze met mine with wide-eyed surprise at first, but she took a sip, anyway. “Thank you.”
“No problem.”
Kira finished the dishes and came to stand between her mother and me, holding her wineglass.
She was as tall as her mother, with the same hair and the same eyes.
She had a different nose from Greta, though—probably from her father.
Both women wore red and green striped socks in their matching slippers, and when I looked down, they also had on matching flannel tartan pajama pants.
“Nobody told me this was a pajama party,” I said, glancing down at my dress slacks and gray sweater. “I’ve got some awesome flannel pants I could have rocked up in. I feel severely overdressed.”
Kira beamed. “Mom said we could stay in our PJs all day. Dad always made us dress up as if we were going to church or a funeral or something. Even when we never went anywhere.”
“We’re creating our own new traditions,” Greta said. “And I say, if we don’t have anywhere to be, then wear whatever the hell you want. Be comfortable. Be you.”
“So, should I go home and get my PJs?” I asked, hooking a thumb over my shoulder.
“Not in this weather,” Greta said. “I don’t want you driving in this.”
Our eyes locked when she realized what she just said. If she didn’t want me driving in this, how was I supposed to get home?
Leave it to Kira to say what the rest of us were thinking. “Then how is he supposed to get home, Mom?”
“Well, hopefully, the plows come through, or the snow lets up,” she finally said.
“We’ll cross that bridge later tonight. He’s not leaving until his belly is full.
That’s all I know right now.” She gave a curt nod, as if to shut us all down once and for all from arguing with her.
But the creep of pink into her cheeks said she was already worried about how this was going to look, and what the sleeping arrangements would be if I couldn’t make it home.