A Catered Thanksgiving Read Online Free PDF

was not as if they had a choice. And if that were the case, they would figure something out. They’d have to. Lately, Libby had come to realize that in a funny way cooking and baking were all about problem solving. You had the ideal, which was the recipe, and then you had reality. Reality was when you had the oven that wasn’t calibrated correctly, you had the wrong-sized pans, you had ten eggs when you needed a dozen. The trick was to bring about some sort of amalgamation between the two and get a good result.
    â€œI hope that oven is big enough,” Bernie said, echoing Libby’s thoughts as she watched her sister take the turkey out of the cooler, where it had been defrosting. It wasn’t even fresh-killed, for heaven’s sake, but this was what Perceval and Ralph Field had wanted and this was what they’d gotten. Both of them had claimed that this kind of turkey was what their brother wanted, and who was she to dispute that?
    â€œI hope the oven is big enough, too,” Libby said as she carried the box to the van.
    It was snowing harder now, the snow coming down in thick, fat flakes. Bernie turned and studied the window of A Taste of Heaven. The window had come out well, if she had to say so herself. Mrs. Fowler’s fifth-grade class had made a diorama of the first Thanksgiving meal between the Indians, or the first Americans, as they were now being called, and the Pilgrims. This formed the main element of the window design.
    Bernie had had something else in mind, but her dad had told Mrs. Fowler that his daughters would love to display the classroom work in the store window, so what could she do? Bernie hadn’t had the heart to contradict him. And, anyway, it was good community relations. But once they’d gotten the diorama in the window, it had become obvious that it was too small, so Bernie had surrounded it with old-fashioned paper turkeys with scarves wrapped around their necks, ears of corn with faces painted on them, and gourds wearing hats.
    What she had was your standard kitschy Thanksgiving holiday window, but then she’d taken some pies, both big and small, lacquered them, and hung them from the ceiling. Somehow the whole thing worked. Maybe, Bernie mused, that was why they’d sold so many pies this year. It wasn’t the one-liner in the Times at all; it was the window sending out subliminal messages. She was deciding that next year she’d decorate in cheesecakes when Libby came up behind her.
    â€œThinking about what you’re going to do for Christmas?” she asked.
    Bernie laughed and brushed the snowflakes out of her hair. “Well, I’ll tell you one thing it’s not going to be. Pies.” She turned back to the van. “I can’t believe it’s snowing like this in November. What ever happened to global warming?” she asked.
    â€œWell, wherever it is, it’s not here,” Libby replied as she tromped back into the kitchen to get more supplies.
    Bernie joined her. They loaded up the boxes with sweet potatoes, onions, celery, peppers, garlic, pearl onions, string beans, two types of mushrooms, butter, heavy cream, freshly baked corn bread, Parker House rolls, a bag of marshmallows, two pies and one cheesecake, and whipped cream, along with five different types of cheese, a variety of crackers, olives, spiced pecans, and walnuts, as well as dried dates, figs, and apricots. And that wasn’t even counting all the other stuff they were bringing.
    As Bernie moved the box that contained the turkey to the side to make room for the other boxes, she said, “Why these people insisted on having a battery-raised turkey, I don’t know,” she groused. “They’re tasteless.”
    â€œYou tried to suggest alternatives and they didn’t listen,” Libby said.
    Bernie sighed. “It’s just that, popular opinion to the contrary, this kind of turkey is difficult to cook well. They tend to get mushy