Page 31 of Stuff My Turkey
Chapter Seven
Honey
The turkey stared at me, pink and naked on the kitchen counter, its lifeless eyes accusing. I'd spent the hours since returning from the Gobble Wobble trying to ignore it while I prepared my tofurkey—a task that had seemed simple enough in theory. Mix some tofu, add seasonings, shape it into something vaguely bird-like. How hard could it be?
Turns out, extremely.
"It looks like a science experiment gone wrong," I muttered, poking at the pale blob. The tofurkey recipe I'd found online had promised a golden, crispy exterior over a moist, flavorful interior. Mine resembled a sad, deflated volleyball with the consistency of wet cement.
Across the kitchen, Heath wasn't faring much better. He'd been distracted ever since the race, checking his phone constantly and peering out windows as if expecting Buck to materialize at any moment. As a result, he'd forgotten to turn on the oven until an hour late.
"How's it going over there?" I called, trying to sound cheerful.
Heath looked up from where he was frantically basting the real turkey. "It's... coming along." His forced optimism couldn't hide the worry in his eyes. "Yours?"
I glanced down at my misshapen lump. "Let's just say I won't be winning any vegetarian cooking competitions."
The kitchen was a disaster zone. Flour dusted every surface, gravy splattered the backsplash, and the sink overflowed with dirty dishes. The Vickerys would arrive in half an hour for our late Thanksgiving dinner, along with Knox and Bitsy who'd disappeared after the race for some "Instagram-worthy fall content" at the pecan grove.
After our heart-to-heart at the Gobble Wobble, the ice between Heath and me had begun to thaw. The wall between us had cracked, if not completely fallen. During the drive back, after he'd finally told me about the blackmail attempt, we'd barely had time to process what it meant before arriving home to start Thanksgiving preparations.
"Heath," I ventured, abandoning my tofurkey massacre to approach him. "About what happened at the race—"
"We'll handle it," he said firmly, though the tightness around his eyes betrayed his concern. "Let's just focus on dinner first."
"But what if—"
"Honey." He set down the baster and turned to face me. "Whatever happens, we’ll face it together. I promise."
The sincerity in his eyes made my heart skip. Before I could respond, the oven timer beeped. Heath swore softly as he pulled out the roast, poking it with a thermometer.
"Not done," he confirmed grimly. "Nowhere near."
I peered over his shoulder at the half-raw bird, pink flesh visible beneath its unevenly browned skin. "How much longer?"
"At least another hour. Maybe two." He checked his watch and grimaced. "Everyone will be here in thirty minutes."
"Well," I said, trying to sound optimistic, "looks like it's tofurkey or nothing."
Heath's pained expression would have been comical under other circumstances. "They'll never forgive us."
"Then we'll blame it on me," I offered. "The vegetarian who sabotaged Thanksgiving. They already think I'm a crazy liberal—which is true—but this will just confirm their suspicions."
A reluctant smile tugged at Heath's lips. "Noble, but I think they'll blame me regardless."
"Team effort?" I suggested, nudging his shoulder with mine.
"Team effort," he agreed, his smile reaching his eyes this time.
We hurried to salvage what we could—arranging sides of mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, rolls, and a questionable-looking sweet potato dish that had formed a strange crust. My tofurkey took center stage on a platter, surrounded by roasted vegetables in a desperate attempt to make it look appetizing. It sat there, a pale beige mound with herb freckles, exuding a scent that hovered uncomfortably between gym socks and health food store.
"Don't forget the cranberry sauce," Heath said, pulling cans from the pantry.
"Wait," I grabbed one, examining the label. "There's a debate about this?"
"Homemade versus canned," Heath explained. "It's practically a religious war in some families."
"Which side are you on?"
