Friendsgiving 4.0 - Thanksgiving Blues

“Gleeps!  That’s one run I’m glad to be done with.” Panting, she wiped her face on her shirt sleeve.  “Now to get to the real work of the day.”

After grabbing a pile of recipes from the coffee table that sat in front of the couch, she went into her small kitchen.  A large turkey, pink and plump, occupied her sink.

“Good morning, Tom,” she chirped as she grabbed the top recipe and quickly read through it.  “You and I have a date with destiny.  And by that, I mean you’re going to end up being the star of a fabulous Friendsgiving Feast.”

For the past four years, Trixie and her beloved gang, known as the Bobwhites, had gotten together after the official Thanksgiving holiday and celebrated with their own Friendsgiving Feast.  Last year after another disastrous meal,  the gang had posed a question about who would host next.  After a lengthy and awkward silence, Trixie had hesitantly raised her hand and offered to do it, assuming that everybody else would either talk her out of it or they would do most of the cooking.  Neither had happened.  So determined to put together a memorable meal that would not only taste delicious but would also outdo all previous dinners, Trixie had spent the week sorting through recipes and gathering the necessary ingredients while frantically cleaning her apartment from top to bottom.

Standing at her kitchen counter, Trixie shoved the turkey wrappings aside, rinsed and patted the bird dry, then set it on a cookie sheet.  Glancing back and forth from her recipe to her ingredients, she proceeded to cut up carrots, onions and celery, then seasoned them with a few herbs before finally stuffing the mixture into the empty turkey cavity. Despite her best efforts, she struggled getting the bird trussed.  It was as if his legs were kicking and his wings were flapping in protest against being put into the hot oven. Frustrated, she finally resorted to propping his wings against his body with a pair of chopsticks that bore the logo of a local Thai restaurant. Clasping the slippery concoction together, she picked him up then plopped him precariously into the roasting pan.

“There,” she said, studying the large bird. “Just be a good boy and hold yourself together.  In a few hours, I  expect to find a nice, toasted skin with those delicious smells that turkeys tend to produce.” Trixie rummaged through a plastic bag from the grocery store. “And now for the stellar finish.”

She pulled out a bottle of blue Powerade, cracked it open then dribbled it over the turkey.

“Here, Tom! Have a drink!”

After that, she placed several pieces of cheesecloth over the turkey breast.

“Gleeps!” she exclaimed as she stepped back and surveyed her work.  “The recipe said the Powerade would give my bird a nice moist taste with a hint of caramelized sweetness. But it didn’t say anything about the turkey looking so weird.”

She quickly reread the recipe to make sure she had correctly followed the directions, then with a shrug of her shoulders, slid the turkey into the ready oven.  She gathered the remains and shoved them into her trash can.   Finally, after washing her hands, Trixie headed off to the bathroom for a hot shower, confident that the heat of her oven would magically transform the bird into an entree that would rival all the magazine pictures she had ever seen.

Returning to her living room a bit later, her wet hair curling softly at the ends, Trixie turned on her television.  When the familiar balloons of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade came onto the screen, she sighed happily and sat down to watch for a few minutes. During a commercial, she pulled out her vacuum and ran it around her apartment.  Then, after placing a card table at the end of her dining room table,  she set it, trying to make the layout as festive as possible. When she was done, she studied her small apartment, pleased with the gaily decorated fireplace mantle and the scattering of small candles around the room. A leafy autumn quilt,  draped over the back of her couch, added to the cozy ambiance. “Perfect.” She nodded in satisfaction.  But a quick trip into the kitchen to baste the turkey reignited Trixie’s worries.  

“This can’t be right. This turkey doesn’t look roasted or caramelized. Gleeps, it looks like it could be a part of a turkey chorus line in Vegas, if there was such a thing.”

Swearing under her breath,  Trixie shoved the turkey back into the oven and slammed the door shut. Three short raps on her door interrupted her worrying.

“Coming, Tad,” she called out.  “And you better have brought the onions.”

Trixie opened the door and found herself face to face with her grinning boyfriend who was holding a plastic grocery bag full of the pearl onions he had insisted be a part of the meal.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Oh-Designated-Cook-of-the-Day,” he said with a kiss.

Trixie motioned him in.  “Whatever.”

“What’s wrong?”

She folded her arms across her chest and frowned  “I followed that stupid recipe for the turkey but it looks weird.”

“Weird?” Tad took off his jacket and hung it on the nearby coat tree.

“Yeah.  Come take a look.”

Trixie led Tad into the kitchen and opened the oven door so he could see what she had done.

“Hmmm,” murmured Tad.  

“What do you think?” Trixie fidgeted anxiously.

With the heat of the oven warming his face, Tad studied the bird.  “Are you sure you followed the recipe? My mom’s turkey never looked like that.”  He closed the oven door.  “It looks less like a turkey and more like a Smurf-key.”

“A what?” puzzled Trixie.

“A Smurf-key.  You know, a turkey that the Smurfs might make.”

Trixie flung out her arms in despair. “Tad! You’re no help. How was I supposed to know that the whole thing would turn blue and stay that way? It was supposed to be caramelized and sweet.  And, as I recall,  you thought the recipe looked interesting and agreed I should give it a try.”

“I bet it will taste great,” assured Tad quickly.  “It probably just needs some more time.”

“I hope so.”

Tad rubbed Trixie’s back.  “Don’t worry about it.  You followed the recipe so it will have to turn out all right.”

Trixie snorted.  “Even I’m not sure I believe that.”

“It’s all I’ve got,” shrugged Tad.

Trixie pushed him away then reached for her pile of recipes.  “Okay, let’s get your onions made. I found one recipe that I think will work.”

Tad waved it away.  “Oh, no. I don’t need a recipe.  I’ve got it all in here.” He pointed to his head.  “I watched my Mom make these onions every year and I know what to do.”

“Are you sure,” asked Trixie doubtfully.  “They won’t turn out blue, will they?”

“No, silly.  And trust me, these will be the next “must have” at all future Friendsgiving dinners.”

Trixie rolled her eyes.  “Really?  You believe that?”

“Yes,  I do. These onions will be all savory and a bit crunchy too.  Perfect with a nice, roasted turkey.” He held up his bag.  “Although I’m pretty sure my mom used frozen onions.  I couldn’t find those but I did manage to find some in a jar.”

“Whatever!  Frozen or jarred, they better be good.”

Tad kissed her nose.  “You’re worrying too much. Now get me a casserole dish, please.”

Working side by side, the two opened the several jars of onions then piled them into a decorative dish.

“And now, the finishing touch,” exclaimed Tad.  He pulled out a bottle of  balsamic vinegar from his bag and generously doused the pile of onions.

“Gleeps!  That’s a lot of vinegar,” cautioned Trixie.

“It’ll be fine,” he promised as he set the dish aside to go into the oven later.

“There aren’t any other ingredients?” Trixie wrinkled her nose. “Are you sure we did that right? It smells kinda strong.”

“Stop worrying.  We did what my mom always did:  dump the onions into a dish, add some balsamic vinegar then heat them.”

“Okay. But I’d feel better if you had an actual recipe.”

“Beldon, are you doubting one of my most cherished childhood memories?” asked Tad, feigning a sad look on his face.

“Of course not.” Trixie held up her hands in surrender.  “But I do doubt that you watched your mother cook as closely as you think you did.”

“Tut! Tut! I’ve got this.” His lips brushed against hers.  “Let’s get the next thing done.  What is it?”

“We need to make the pumpkin pies.”

“Now?  Shouldn’t we have done that a few days ago? My mom always made them the day before Thanksgiving.”

Trixie grimaced.  “So does mine but I just didn’t have the time.”  Her face brightened.  “But at least this way, they’ll be nice and fresh.”

Tad rubbed his hands together.  “Okay.  What do we do?”

Trixie pointed to the cans of pumpkin on her counter.  “You put together the filling while I prepare the crust.”

“Isn’t the crust the hard part?”

Trixie grinned.  “Not this year. I picked up pie crust mix at the store.  I just have to add water,  roll them out, and pop them in the pie plate.  Then we dump in the filling and...voila!  We have fresh, homemade pie.”

While Trixie worked on the crust, Tad got busy with the pumpkin.  After  opening and putting it into a large bowl, he consulted the recipe.

“Hey, look,” he said, holding up the printed page.  “The pie in the picture has cut out leaves around the edge of the crust.  Do you think you could do that?”

Trixie studied the picture.  “Sure.  I’ll just roll out the dough extra thin so I'll have some left over.”  

She pushed down on the dough, then rolled it out, making it so thin it became translucent in spots.  Meanwhile, Tad had gathered the necessary spices and was adding them to the pumpkin.  

“Let’s see,” he mumbled.  “A tablespoon of cornstarch and a half teaspoon of salt.”

“Tad!” Trixie suddenly whirled around.  “I have a great idea.”

“What?” He paused the salt container mid air.

“How about I sprinkle the leaves with some colored sugar that I have left over from last year’s Christmas cookies.”

“I like that.”

While Trixie rummaged through her cabinet, Tad measured out the rest of the ingredients, muttering under his breath while he worked. “A tablespoon of salt and a half teaspoon of cornstarch.”

When the two were done with their individual tasks, Trixie lifted the prepared crusts and attempted to fit them into her pie plates.

“Gleeps! “ she wailed. “This stupid dough is falling apart.”

Struggling to keep the crusts intact, she managed to get the rolled dough into the plates but the dough was full of holes and tears. Using her saliva dampened fingers, she pushed and smushed the tissue- thin pieces together.  Once she had the crusts more or less repaired, she opened her oven door and slid the pie shells onto the bottom rack.

“Hey,” cried Tad.  “What about the pumpkin? When does that go in?”

“You have to bake the crust first or it will be all soggy.” Frowning, she tilted her head and looked up at her boyfriend.  “I thought you said you watched your mom make your Thanksgiving dinner.”

“I did...in between watching football or tossing one around in the yard with my Dad and Spider.” He smirked as he propped his hand on his hip.  “And that from the woman who turned her turkey bl…”

Trixie pressed her index finger against Tad’s lips.  “Don’t say it.  Just don’t say it.

He kissed her finger, then looked around.  “Okay, Boss. What’s next?”

Trixie scanned her cluttered counters.  “We need to make sure we have enough serving dishes and silverware.  Plus, I need to wash the wine glasses.  They’re kind of dusty.”

Tad reached into the top shelf of the cabinet and retrieved several goblets.  “You know, they wouldn’t be dusty if you used them more.”

Trixie shrugged.  “I’m fine with having my wine in a Mickey Mouse jelly jar, plus I’m too lazy to actually work that hard to get one off the top shelf.”  She suddenly paused and sighed loudly.

“What?”

“I’m just worried about that stupid turkey.  What if it stays blue and grosses everybody out?”

“Come on, Trixie.  It’ll be fine. Let’s get these washed.  There’s a football game starting in a few minutes and I want to catch the kickoff.”

“Kickoff? And who’s supposed to clean up from all our cooking?” Her fingers tapped against the kitchen counter.

Tad looked at Trixie’s annoyed face.  “Me.  Right before the kickoff.”

He offered her an appeasing boyish smile, then got to work, filling the sink with soapy water. He placed the oddball collection of goblets, followed by the various bowls and spoons into the suds.

“Don’t worry about a thing, Belden,” he called over his shoulder. “I’ll just whip this kitchen into shape then we can both watch the game.” He  stopped suddenly and spun around.  “Wait, I’ve got a great idea.”

“What?”

“Why don’t you go relax in a nice hot bath.  You know, calm down a bit. You do seem a bit edgy.

Trixie rolled her eyes.  “Pffft! Me? In a bath?  Next you’ll want me to add some bubbles to it.”

Tad shrugged.  “So add some of your smelly shower gel.  I’m sure that will bubble up just fine.”

“Tad,” Trixie argued, her annoyance growing. “I’m not a bubble bath kind of girl.”

“Try something new.  Come on, Beldon.  Everything’s fine here.  The turkey’s cooking nicely and we’ll get the pies ready to go back into the oven.  Nobody’s due for an hour.  Go grab a mystery book and relax. I promise; you’ll feel a whole lot better.”

“But I just took a shower.”

“A bath is more relaxing. You finish cutting out the leaves while I pour the filling into the shells. Then, while you soak your cares away, I’ll clean up here.”

“Whatever,” said Trixie with a quick shake of her head.  “Let’s just get these pies done.”

She got to work with the remaining dough and cookie cutters.  She cut out several leaves then gently placed them around the edges of the pies. A slight sprinkle of green and gold sugar on top of them made her smile.  “These pies do look pretty.  Maybe things will work out after all.”

“They will.  Now go take a nice, long bath,” Tad ordered, pointing her out of the small kitchen.

Trixie reluctantly trudged into her bathroom and shut the door. Pulling back the shower curtain, she turned on the water then reached for the nearly full bottle of shower gel. She unscrewed the cap and took a few whiffs.

“Hmm….a calming fragrance,” she murmured.  “We’ll see about that.”

She poured some of the fragrant liquid into the streaming water then decided to empty in the rest of the bottle. When the bath was full, Trixie stripped out of her clothes and stepped into the tub, her newest mystery book in hand. She slid down into the hot suds and settled herself. In a few minutes, Trixie was immersed in both the story and the relaxing bubbles.  

Later, Tad tapped on the bathroom door.  

“Trixie?  Are you still in there or have you turned into a prune?”

Trixie sat up.  “Gleeps! I got so into my book that I lost track of time.  I better hurry.”

She reached for the plug.  As the water swirled down the drain, she placed her book on the floor then stood up.

“No. No. No. No. No,” cried Trixie in a panicked voice.

“What?”  

“No. No. No,” she cried again.

“What?” demanded Tad, alarmed.

“This can’t be happening,” yelled Trixie.

“What’s going on?  Are you okay?”

Tad put his hand on the doorknob, but before he could turn it, Trixie flung open the door.

“Look! Just look!”

Trixie, wrapped in a green bath towel that was held in place with her clenched fist, walked out of the bathroom and into the small hallway.

“Wh….what happened to you?” gasped Tad. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine but that stupid relaxing bath turned me blue.  Look at me.  My entire body is blue.”

Tad stared at his dripping wet girlfriend.

“What am I going to do now?”

Tad patted her arm. “You’re not that blue.  You’re just a bit dusky.” He licked his finger then rubbed at her arm.  “Nope.  It didn’t come off.”

“I already know that,” yelled Trixie.  “I knew this was a bad idea.”

Tad snapped his fingers. “I know. Go take a shower and scrub your skin with that puffy thing of yours.  That should take care of it.”

Stepping back into the bathroom, Trixie started the shower.

“And may I suggest that you…”

Before Tad could finish, Trixie slammed the door in his face. “No,” she yelled through the door.  “You cannot suggest anything else.”

“Okay,” he answered quietly.  “I’ll just wait out here.”

Tad returned to the living room where he perched on the edge of the couch and tried to get back into the football game. The smells from the oven filtered through the apartment while the afternoon sun warmed the room.  As soon as the shower stopped, he jumped up and ran to the hallway.

“Did that help?”

Trixie threw open the door. “No.”

She stood before him, her blue eyes snapping and her blond curls quivering.  “Any more brilliant ideas?”

Tad slowly shook his head.  “I’m sure it will come off...eventually.”  His eyes twinkled and his lips fought against a growing smile.

“Now what?” glared Trixie.

“Nothing.” He kicked at the floor with the toe of his shoe.

“You might as well say what you’re thinking, Tad.”

“Fine.” He grinned broadly.  “With your blue eyes, blond hair and blue skin, you look just like Smurfette.”

“Smurfette?” shrieked Trixie.  “You think I look like a girly cartoon character?”

“Kinda,” squirmed Tad.

Holding the towel tightly around her, Trixie marched into her bedroom and slammed the door.  When she came out a few minutes later, she had on jeans, a long sleeved shirt and shoes and socks.

“See.  You look fine,” said Tad soothingly.

Trixie held up a warning finger.  “Not one more word, Webster.  Not one more word.”

She then went into the kitchen where she checked on the meal.

“The pies look good and I see you put the onions in the oven but this stupid turkey is still blue.”

“It’s fine,” whispered Tad as he ran a string of kisses along the back of her neck.  “Yum, you smell good.”

“Forget it, Tad.  I’m pretty sure Smurfette never shared a kiss with anyone. Besides, the Bobwhites are due here in a few minutes.”

Within a short time, the entire group had arrived and was gathered in Trixie’s living room. Brian, Mart, Dan and Jim were glued to a spirited football game that played out on the television.  Diana and Honey sat at one end of the couch nibbling on the brie appetizer Honey had brought.  

“Your place smells great,” said Honey as she placed a cracker in her mouth. “And it’s the real thing instead of a scented candle.”

“Thanks” said Trixie, forcing a smile. “I guess that’s one advantage to waiting till the last minute to bake the pies.”

“Are you okay?” asked Diana.

Trixie nodded.  

“I don’t know,” continued Diana.  “You seem kinda blue.”

Trixie stared at her friend.  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Diana spread some warm brie on her own cracker.  “Nothing.  You just seem down.”

“I’m fine.” Trixie grabbed a cracker and stuffed it in her mouth, ending any additional conversation about her mood.

When the buzzer went off in the kitchen, Tad and Trixie went to get the turkey out of the oven.  Trixie cleared some space on the counter where Tad sat the brilliant blue bird.

“What do you think?” he asked as they stepped back and assessed the bizarre entree.

Trixie shook her head sadly.  “Like you said; it’s a Smurf-key.”

“It’ll be fine,” insisted Tad. “Just turn down the lights and nobody will notice.”

“Maybe. But there’s nothing I can do about it now.  I’ll just get the rest of the stuff together.  You go watch the game.”

Tad tossed his hot pads on the counter then made a hasty exit.  Alone in the kitchen,  Trixie gathered the potluck side dishes and, along with several bottles of wine, added them to her crowded table.  She lit a few more candles before turning off most of the lights in the apartment. Finally,  she announced the dinner was ready.  The Bobwhites made their way to the table and took their seats. In the kitchen, Tad and Trixie looked at each other, took a deep fortifying breath, then carried the turkey into the dining room to their waiting guests.

“Trixie!  This meal looks…” Honey’s mouth dropped open when she spotted the blue turkey.

“Wha….wha…..wha?” Mart stared, speechless at the platter that Tad set in the center of the table.

Dan’s eyes darted between the turkey and the hostess.  “Uh...Trixie?”

“Happy Friendsgiving,” said Tad weakly.

“Wha...wha…..wha…?” sputtered Mart again.

“Now you’ve done it, Trixie.”  Dan dropped his head onto his hands.  “You’ve left Mart speechless.”  He looked at Brian.  “Is this what you’d call a code blue?”

“That is not funny!” exploded Trixie.

Diana leaned in for a closer look.  “I think it’s pretty. It’s the color of a robin’s egg.”

Trixie smiled gratefully at her friend.  “Thank you, Diana.”

“What happened?” asked Jim.

Trixie sighed heavily.  “I tried this new recipe and it called for the turkey to be covered with cheesecloth and blue Powerade.  It was supposed to make the turkey moist with a slightly sweet glaze.  No where in that stupid recipe did it mention it would make the turkey blue.”

Mart, his eyes laser focused, studied the bird. Then he shrugged and held out his plate.  “You know me, my unfortunate sibling.  I’ll ingest basically any form of nutrition that one may have the opportunity to place in front of me.”

Trixie rolled her eyes.  “Fine.  Take some.”

The entire group watched as Mart carved off a large slice of turkey, added some mashed potatoes and a ladleful of gravy.  Then he took a tentative taste. With a look of extreme concentration on his face, he shifted the food in his mouth from side to side. Finally, he swallowed his bite and shrugged.

“It’s definitely moist and has a distinct, though not wholly unpleasant taste.   All in all, it’s not the worst thing I’ve ever eaten.”

A collective sigh went around the room.  Everybody began passing the food, filling their plates as the bowls and platters went by.

“I don’t care what anybody else says,” repeated Diana.  “I think Trixie has made the prettiest turkey I’ve ever seen.”

“Yea,” said Dan through a full mouth.  “I’ve never had smurf-key before.”

Trixie shot a glittering glare to her friend.  “I suppose you think that’s funny?  Cuz it’s not.  It’s not even original. See,I’ve already heard that today.”

Grinning, Dan popped another forkful of food into his mouth.

Next to him, Honey scooped up several pearly onions.  

“Ick!” She quickly spit them out onto her plate.

“What?” demanded Tad.  “Don’t you like my onions?  It’s my Mom’s special dish.”

Honey dabbed at her mouth with her napkin. “Did you have a recipe?” She grabbed her water and gulped greedily.

“Not really,” answered Tad.  “I watched her make it every year so I just did what she did.”

Trixie speared one of the onions and popped it in her own mouth.

“Yuck!”  She too spit it out.

“Come on, guys.  They can’t be that bad,” pleaded Tad.  

He put an onion into his mouth, then promptly spit it out.  

“I don’t understand,” he puzzled.  “I did what my mother did. I opened the jars of onions, put them into a dish, then drizzled them with balsamic vinegar.”

“Jars of onions?” questioned Mart.  “Usually the onions in jars are pickled.”

“Pickled?” Tad looked puzzled.  “Are you sure?”

Mart nodded.  “Of course I’m sure.  Did the recipe call for pickled onions?”

“Heck if I know.   But when I couldn’t find any pearl onions in the frozen foods I looked for them in the vegetable aisle.”

“Yep,” nodded Mart knowingly. “You used the incorrect form of the flavorful yet pungent vegetable.”

Trixie glared at her boyfriend.  “Great!  Just great!  I told you to use a real recipe and not your vague memories.”

“Hey!  How was I supposed to know?” Tad looked around the table.  “Isn’t anybody going to come to my defense?”

“Not really,” smirked Dan.  

“However,” continued Mart as he sipped at his wine.  “I can tolerate these mis-prepared onions any time over the unappealing and unappetizing platterful of eels from a couple of years ago.”

Dan twisted in his chair to face Mart.  “Why are we still discussing our dinner from two years ago?  Maybe, just maybe, you really liked those eels.”

Mart shook his head.  “Don’t flatter yourself, Dan.”

“I don’t have to.  You’re still talking about my authentic Thanksgiving dinner. That in itself speaks volumes.”

Mart  took another bite of the turkey.  “Actually, this fowl is not half bad, not compared to those…”

Before Mart could finish his sentence, Dan punched him in the arm.  “Stuff it, Mart. Just stuff it.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” grinned Mart as he put another forkful of food into his mouth.  

The dishes the others had brought rounded out the traditional meal which they all happly dug into, although a bit more reluctantly with the turkey.  After Mart had refilled his plate a third time, he paused and studied a speared chunk of turkey, turning  it back and forth.

“You know, as I ingest this seasonal repast, I am reflecting on the possibility that this idiosyncratic sustenance could alter the pigmentation of my fecal matter.  What do you all think?”

Trixie stared at her brother.  “What did you say now?”

Dan choked on his wine.  “Mart’s wondering if the turkey will turn his poop blue.”

“Gleeps, Mart.  Do you think anybody cares what color your so called fecal matter is.  I don’t.  Tad?  Brian?  Anybody?”

As Trixie looked around the table, she saw seven heads shaking back and forth.  “Just as I thought.  Nobody cares.  Now go back to stuffing your face, Mart.”

An hour later, the Bobwhites had managed to finish up all the goodies that were on the table, except the inedible onions and the blue turkey.  Jim and Brian jumped up and began clearing the dishes while Dan and Mart volunteered to wash. Relieved that the clean-up chore was claimed by others,  Trixie flopped back in her chair, pushed up her shirtsleeves and waved her hand through the air.

“Have at it.  Far be it for me to turn down a dish washer or two.”

She poured herself some more wine then she, Honey and Diana went into the living room where they searched for a holiday movie to watch.

“I hope the original Miracle On 34th Street is on,” said Diana.  “I just love that version.”

“Me too,” replied Honey.  “Natalie Wood is so adorable.”  

With a few clicks of the remote control, Diana found what she was searching for and the girls sat back and relaxed.  

“This is the way it should be,” declared Trixie as she took a small sip of her wine.  “The guys in the kitchen and us out here in the living room.”  

“Trixie!” gasped Honey suddenly, her eyes wide and fixated on Trixie’s arm.  “What happened?”

“What?” Trixie sat up and looked around her apartment.  “Is something wrong?”

“Yes,” replied Honey.  “You.”

“Me?” Trixie looked down and noticed her arms where she had pushed up her shirtsleeves.

“Brian,” yelled Honey.  “We need you out here.”

“No, we don’t,” insisted Trixie.  “I’m fine.”

“Clearly, you’re not.  Maybe you’re not getting enough oxygen.  Brian.” Honey’s panicked voice carried through the small apartment.

“What’s wrong?”  A puzzled Brian ambled out of the kitchen, a dish towel on his shoulder.

“Look at your sister.” Honey held out one of Trixie’s arms. “I think she’s not getting enough oxygen.”

Brian tossed the towel aside, then knelt down in front of his sister where he immediately began taking her pulse.

“Stop!” cried Trixie, her face blushing furiously.  “There’s nothing wrong with me.”

“But you’re blue,” squealed Diana. “Something must be wrong.”

By now, the rest of the males had come into the living room and were watching Trixie and Brian.  

“Guys, she’s fine,” said Tad.

“How would you know?” demanded Mart.

“Trix?” asked Jim.  “Are you sick?”

Trixie sat up and yanked down her shirtsleeves.  “No. I am not sick.  I am not oxygen deprived.  There is nothing wrong with me.”

“But you’re blue,” cried Honey again.

Brian examined Trixie’s fingers.  “Hmmm.  This is odd. Usually, if there’s a lack of oxygen, the fingers turn blue first, but yours are fine.  I’ve never heard of the forearms being affected.”  He sat back on his heels.  “Maybe I should take you to the emergency room.”

Trixie stood up and faced the group.  “Gleeps! If you must know I decided to take a soaking bath before you guys got here and Tad thought I should make it a bubble bath, although I don’t know why.  And then my stupid, smelly shower gel that I added to the water turned my skin blue.”  

Honey’s mouth dropped open.  “You took a long, soaking bath? With bubbles? I don’t believe it.”

Trixie stamped her foot.  “Well, I did and not only did it not relax me, it made me even more stressed when I turned blue.” She spun around to Tad.  “This is all your fault.”

“My fault?” Tad’s eyes widened in amazement.  “What’d I do?”

“You made me take a bath.”

Before Tad could respond, Dan, beside him, started to chuckle.  “You know who you look like, Trixie?”

Her jaw clenched,Trixie wagged her finger at Dan.  “Don’t say it.  Don’t you dare say it.”

“You look like Smurfette,” roared Dan.

Trixie collapsed onto the couch.  “And thanks for not saying that.” She looked up at Brian.  “Am I going to stay like this forever?”

“No,” smiled Brian.

“Are you sure?”

Brian nodded.  “Remember how your fingers looked on Easter morning after dying eggs the night before? That didn’t last, did it?”

“I guess not.  But nobody better call me Smufette again.”

“Okay,” smiled Brian   “We’ll try to rein it in.”

“Do more than try,” scowled Trixie.

Brian laughed. “Okay,  But you really do look like…”

Trixie’s glare cut Brian’s sentence short.  He held up his hands in surrender.  “Okay.  Okay,  No more Smurfette.”

The guys returned to the kitchen and finished the dishes.  Honey, Diana and a grumpy Trixie stayed in the living room.

“Gleeps! I can’t believe this,” groused Trixie.

“Can’t believe what?” asked Diana.

“This whole fiasco.”

“Come on, Trixie,” replied Diana.  “Your turkey was a really pretty entree that didn’t taste too terribly bad.  And yes, Tad’s onions were a bit off, but who cares?”

“And,” added Honey.  “Your apartment looks great.  I love the pumpkins and garland you have on your mantle.  We’re all together and having a good time.  And we can be really grateful that there is no platter of icky eels staring at us.

Dan stepped out of the kitchen.  “I heard that.  Can’t you guys give it a rest?”

“Sorry,” sang out Honey.

Mart, holding a pumpkin pie in each hand, sailed past Dan and into the dining room.  “We will when the time comes that you have redeemed yourself.”  He placed the pies on the table then disappeared back into the kitchen.  When he came out, he held a stack of dessert plates and forks.  “In the meantime, let’s focus our attention on the delicious and quite cleverly decorated pies. I wonder who made them.”

“Very funny,” grumbled Trixie as she pushed by her brother.  “You know darn well I made them.”

“You and me,” corrected Tad.  "We made quite a team in this production.”

The group re-assembled around the table and took their seats.  Trixie cut the pies while Tad stayed busy adding large dollops of whipped topping to the fragrant slices.  Mart, his eyes closed, raised his fork to his mouth, uttered an anticipatory sigh, then slid in his first bite.  Suddenly, his eyes popped open and he spit out his pie onto his plate.

“Yuck!”

“Yuck?” questioned Trixie as her entire body sagged in defeat. “Now what’s wrong?”

Using his fork, Mart pointed at Tixie’s piece of pie.  “Go ahead.  Take a bite.”

Trixie tentatively put a small taste of pie into her mouth then she too  promptly spit it out. “Gleeps!” She glared at Tad. “What did you do to the pie?”

“Me?  I didn’t do anything.  I followed the recipe.  You're the one who put the pretty leaves on it.”

Honey nibbled at a part of her leaf.  “No.  The leaves are just fine.”  Then she took a small scoop of the filling, making a face as she forced it down.  “But the pie is not.  It’s way too salty.”  

“But it’s not blue,” commented Dan.  

Trixie glared at him.  “Whoever heard of a blue pumpkin pie?”

“Whoever heard of a blue turkey?” Dan fired back.

Trixie threw up her hands.  “Now what?  These pies taste gross.”

“I have an idea,” said Brian.

“What?” asked the Bobwhites in unison.

“I say we dump the pies, then go to Wimpy’s and have some nice, gooey hot fudge sundaes for dessert.  Who says we always have to have pumpkin pie?”

“That sounds like a great idea,” agreed Honey.  

“I’m in,” echoed Jim.  

“Wait!  Will Trixie want blueberry ice cream under her hot fudge sauce?” teased Mart.

Beside him, Diana exhaled loudly.  “Seriously, Mart.  The turkey was gorgeous and tasted fine.  As for the onions, who cares?”

“I do,” muttered Tad.

Diana smiled at him.  “I’m sure you’ll get it right next time.  And anybody can add too much salt or anything else to a recipe.  I think Trixie made a fine meal.”

Trixie bowed her head at Diana.  “Thank you.  That was spoken like a true Bobwhite.”

“And,” continued Diana as she turned in her chair, “since you’re so quick with the criticism, Mart, I think you should be the one who prepares our Friendsgiving feast next year.”

“Here! Here!” agreed Dan.  “Let’s see what you put together, Mart.”

“But...but…” Mart looked around the table.  “Fine,” he said, lifting his chin.

“I accept the challenge.  In fact, I will prepare a seasonal repast that will have all of you proclaiming its exceptionalism throughout the entire year, maybe even the decade.” He pounded the table for emphasis. “And you won’t have to worry about fires or eels or anything else. Everything will be perfect.  Just you wait and see.”

Across the table, Dan rolled his eyes.  “The eels again?”

“Dan, they even ruined my appetite,” said Mart.  “But I promise all of you, next year’s feast will be the best yet.”

“Okay,” answered Trixie. “Just make sure we can pronounce whatever you put on the table.”  

With that decision made, the men left the dining room and returned to the kitchen where they quickly finished the dishes while Trixie, Diana and Honey went back to their movie in the living room.  When everything was dried and put away, the gang got their coats and headed out to their favorite hangout.  As Trixie was locking her door, Tad stood by her side.

“Well,” he said softly.  “At least we got that behind us.  Our turn won’t come up for a while.”

Trixie turned and stared up at Tad.  “Excuse me? Our turn?”

“Yeah.”

“As I recall, I was the one who offered to host this year.”

“But I helped.  Don’t I get credit for that?”

Trixie slid her key into her pocket.  “Let’s see,” she looked up at the faintly lit ceiling in the apartment foyer.  “You made onions that were yucky and pies that were also yucky.  No, you do not get credit for that.”

“So, at some point down the road, I have to host?” asked Tad incredulously.

Trixie nodded.  “Yep.”

“Will you at least help?”

“Sure.” She grinned mischievously. “And if you get stressed out, I’ll recommend you take a long soaking bubble bath that will…”

Before she could finish, Tad leaned down and kissed her.

“Despite all the drama, I think your dinner was good. What do you think?”

Trixie silently contemplated Tad’s comment.  Then, with her hand clasped in his, the two followed the boisterous group out the front door and into the crisp night air.  As Tad’s pace quickened, Trixie pulled him back.

“Here’s what I think: my meal was all right and definitely memorable, unfortunately not in the way I wanted. But we all had fun and I don’t have to do it next year and somebody else did the dishes, so I’m okay with how it turned out.”

Tad squeezed her hand.  “Good. I thought it turned out okay too.”

“Even though your onions really sucked?” teased Trixie.

Tad gave her a light hip bump.  “Yes, Smurfette, even though my onions really sucked.  Come on, let’s catch up with the rest of the group.  We don’t want Mart to eat all the ice cream before we get there.”

Breaking into a trot, the two caught up with the group who was still laughing and debating about their annual Friendsgiving Feast. Above all the voices, Trixie could hear Diana saying again,

“But seriously guys, that was the prettiest turkey I’ve ever seen.”

word count - 6263

Author’s notes:  Thank you to my sister Judith for her editing and my daughter Katie for her content advice.  A special thank you to the characters whom I borrow with total respect.

Powerade - a sports drink made by Coca-Cola.

Miracle on 34th Street - a 1947 film with Maureen O’Hara and Natalie Wood.

Smurfette - one of the main characters from the comic strip The Smurfs.