Thanksgiving in the Wreckage
The turkey I’m planning to cook next week weighs seventeen pounds. I’ve been texting my dad obsessively—what size roasting pan does he have, does his oven run hot, should I bring my own meat thermometer? He had surgery two weeks ago, and I’m driving out with my partner, Adrian, to make Thanksgiving dinner for the first time. I’m a good cook. I can do five sides without thinking. But a whole turkey feels different—a test I’m taking without knowing if I’m ready. My dad is allergic to cats, so...
