Happy Holiday weekend!
For my family yesterday was Thanksgiving. This year we didn’t do the big family gathering, which made things very different.
Normally my Thanksgiving day starts with an early rise for the Turkey-Day 10K. This year I ran a 5K with the family at noon.
Normally it’s all rush-rush to get showered and down to the family in time for the big meal. This year dinner was at 6, well after Charlie’s afternoon nap.
Normally I bake at least one pie. This year we purchased a pie from Costco.
In short, everything was different.
It was different, but it was nice. In the absence of every normal tradition, we had an opportunity to explore the parts of the holiday that were important to us. We had a lovely meal, we goofed off and laughed together, and of course, we missed our extended families.
The whole experience got me thinking about what I would write, because I hadn’t started writing my flash fiction piece for this week yet. Perhaps I was experimenting with the idea of being a vaguely irresponsible adult. Or, maybe I’m just a busy mom and it was a holiday week.
I sat down and started writing at about 9:30 PM on Thanksgiving evening. Fueled with a bit of wine and an Irish Coffee, I was enticed by the idea of talking food. What resulted was this piece, which combines the concept of a solo holiday with food that talks. I hope you enjoy the result.
I was so tickled with how it came out that I decided to use a longer version of it as a reedsy submission. That means that technically, this story was first published on Reedsy.
Regardless, I give you Bitter Cranberries
Bitter Cranberries
Jill N Davies
Frances had never cooked an entire Thanksgiving dinner all on her own. It wasn’t that she couldn’t, but that she came from a very large family.
Coming from a large family made holidays the stuff of chaos. The way she figured, the apocalypse was probably more organized than her parent’s house on a holiday. The kitchen absolutely bursted with the smells of so many dishes…
Grandma Trudy’s famous roast, Uncle Iver’s pickled radishes, Great Grandma Ida’s spiced potatoes…
And then you had to count the current generation: Hildy’s brownie bottom pumpkin pie, Trevor’s sweet corn casserole, cousin Barbara’s pineapple upside-down sweet potato dish…. It was enough to make anyone’s head spin!
And the food was only the half of it all. Each family member managed to bring their own drama to the table. Since Frances was a chef, she embodied that drama in the dishes:
Momma’s histrionic glazed ham
Anita’s baked brie stuffed with petty jealousy
Cousin Benji’s pigs in a blanket with another woman, resting on a pile of divorce paper cabbage and served with alimony sauce
When the opportunity arose for a solo Thanksgiving, Frances basked in the idea of a peaceful, drama-free meal. She hadn’t counted on how judgy the food would be.
Turkey trussed-up in a double-deep roasting pan stuffed with vegetables, mounds of potatoes obscuring the counter-top, bowls full of lettuces, breadcrumbs and several experimental sauces, Frances viewed her world.
She took a sip of wine, letting the bright acidity contrast the scent of simmering broth laced with rosemary.
“I’m so glad I don’t have to spend the day smelling Aunt Kacy’s over-seasoned green beans with emotional-baggage mushrooms,” she said to the turkey.
She stared at the turkey as if she expected it to respond, but it was the sprouts that spoke up.
“You sure don’t sound like you’re enjoying it,” they said.
Frances’s eyes settled on the sprouts. She tilted her head curiously as she studied their ordinary-ness.
“It’s nice not to have any drama,” she said.
“No drama? What do you call that panic-attack you had when the salt-shaker top came off then?” the turkey asked.
Frances gave the turkey a stern side-eye and said, “Fixing that means that you’re going into the oven instead of the trash, so watch that attitude!”
The Turkey gulped and the oven dinged. She grabbed a couple of oven mitts and set about the task of getting the bird settled.
“Enjoy yourself in there!” she said.
“I will!” the turkey replied.
She gave it a content nod before shutting the oven.
“Where’s my wine glass?” she asked.
“Over here!” it called.
She retrieved it, took a sip, and decided that it wasn’t weird that her food was talking to her.
“You all make better company, anyway,” she said.
“You don’t miss your family at all?” the potatoes asked.
“I didn’t say that,” Frances said.
“But you said that a bunch of talking food was better company. Don’t you think that means there’s something wrong with you?” the Waldorf salad asked.
“Food’s always spoken to me. It’s why I became a chef!” Frances said.
“Yeah, but we’re literally talking to you,” came the muffled voice of the roasting turkey.
Frances shrugged. “You’re all in my head. What’s the harm?”
“Some serious mental and emotional ramifications?” the pecan pie suggested.
“Cuz you’re not quite drunk yet!” the pinot chimed in.
“Damn, that was gonna be my excuse,” Frances said. The diced fruit snickered.
“Just admit that you miss them!” the sage-rubbed yams said.
“I don’t miss them! Family is nothing but drama, noise and a bunch of people who don’t appreciate your cranberry sauce,” Frances said.
“Didn’t Uncle Iver like your cranberry sauce?” the sprouts asked.
“Yeah, and cousin Chelsea too!” The turkey piped in.
“And Pappa, don’t forget him,” the pumpkin risotto added.
“Sure, a couple people liked them, but Mark’s kids said they were goopy and Grandma Jane threw them out after dinner. She said there was no room for leftovers!” Frances argued.
“Maybe they were goopy,” the potatoes said.
“They wouldn’t even know! They took one look at them and stuck their noses up!” Frances cried.
“You’re being a little sensitive,” the pinot suggested.
“I’m not being sensitive! My mom’s the one who gets sensitive. Anita and Hildy get sensitive. Those cranberries were the same recipe that earned me my first star,” Frances argued.
“Maybe this isn’t about cranberry sauce,” The turkey suggested.
“Yeah, maybe this has more to do with feeling like your family doesn’t appreciate you,” the sprouts agreed.
“They don’t,” Frances agreed.
“Do you appreciate them?” the yams asked.
“I… do. Most of the time,” Frances faltered.
“When you’re not criticizing their cooking,” the rolls said.
“And their personal problems!” the mushrooms added.
“I don’t criticize,” Frances argued.
“What about the dish names—Henry’s close-talking clafloutis?” The dang mirepoix was too observant.
“Okay, so maybe I can be a bit of a jerk to them sometimes too. It’s hard not being noticed, being put aside because I’m the single at the table. Always sleeping on the sofa because I don’t have a partner… I just want to feel important!” She said.
“So you shut yourself in and made a 12-course meal all to yourself?” The turkey asked.
“Who’s going to tell you you’re important, you?” the pie asked.
“She probably expects it to be us,” They sprouts said. Frances could practically hear their non-existent eyes roll in the back of their sprout-y little heads.
“Alright! I get it! I’ll go call them right now. Will that make you happy?” She asked.
The vegetables cheered.
“Put them on video so they can see my drippings!” They turkey yelled.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Frances chuckled.
She set her wine glass on the counter and made her exit in search of her phone. The door shut, knocking a small paper sack over and spilling its contents.
“Can you believe she didn’t even notice me?” the spilled cranberries asked indignantly.
The End
I finished the story at about 10:45 last night. It was just in time for Juniper to be due for another feed, so I took the opportunity to snuggle the pup until then.
Don’t feel like reading for yourself? I’ll read it to you on IGTV!
Want something with a bit more meat on the bones? I write short stories for reedsy. You can check out my entries:
Hungry for more?
I’ve been published in a winter anthology. Check out my short story Shipwrecked Santa in Angry Eagle’s winter anthology, Apocalyptic Winter- Book 2. You can get your copy on Amazon today
If you’ve got an idea for a flash fiction story send it to me at author@jillndavies.com
Tune in next week for more Flash Fiction.
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