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When my mom told me she’d be working late the night before Thanksgiving, I saw it as my big chance. I, Snow—sixteen and a kitchen novice—would surprise her by cooking a holiday feast she’d never forget. After all, how hard could it be? A little turkey here, a side dish there—I’d seen her do it a million times.
Armed with enthusiasm and a few bookmarked recipes, I got started. The first step was the turkey. Our bird was massive, as in “feed-a-family-of-twenty” massive, but I was determined. After a quick internet search, I learned the key to juicy turkey: brine. The recipe I found had a list of spices and herbs longer than my history syllabus. I shrugged, grabbed some salt and pepper, and figured I’d just wing it.
After sprinkling a generous amount of salt (maybe a little too much) and setting the oven temperature to what I thought looked reasonable, I slid the turkey in and set a timer. “Easy,” I thought, with a satisfied smile. While the turkey cooked, I moved on to mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, and stuffing. Things were actually going pretty well, and the smell of roasting turkey filled the kitchen. It was about this point that I began to feel like a culinary genius.
The timer beeped, and I opened the oven. I expected a golden-brown bird. Instead, I saw… smoldering turkey. The skin was blackened in some areas and raw in others, and a haze of smoke was filling the kitchen.
“Oh no,” I whispered, my heart sinking. I quickly grabbed a pair of oven mitts and pulled the turkey out. The thing looked like a science experiment gone wrong. I realized in horror that I’d set the oven to broil instead of bake, practically torching the top. I also hadn’t checked the internal temperature. And I had no idea how to fix it.
I did my best to salvage the bird, covering the burnt parts with foil and popping it back in at a lower temperature, hoping it might cook evenly. Desperate to regain some control, I turned my attention to the other dishes. Surely, I could at least manage mashed potatoes.
That’s when I made my next mistake: I’d used an entire clove of garlic in the potatoes, thinking it would “add flavor.” Well, add flavor it did, but in the most overpowering, fiery way possible. I took one taste and my eyes watered. They weren’t mashed potatoes—they were vampire repellent. But the thought of starting over was too overwhelming, so I decided I’d just not mention the garlic.
The green bean casserole came out fine, although it wasn’t as golden as my mom’s. I assumed a quick trip under the broiler would fix that. The stuffing, however, presented a new challenge: it was runny. So runny it looked more like soup. I frantically stirred in some breadcrumbs, hoping it would thicken, and when that didn’t work, I dumped in a handful of flour. Finally, it thickened up… but in a gluey, sticky sort of way. I put it aside, hoping it’d “settle.”
The sound of my mom’s car pulling up outside sent me into a panic. I’d spent hours in the kitchen only to create a “feast” that looked more like a survival meal after a natural disaster. But I had no choice—I plated everything as nicely as I could, covering the less appealing parts with sprigs of parsley and hoping for the best.
Mom walked in with Hafi and my little brother behind her, looking surprised. “You cooked all of this?” she asked, impressed.
“Yep,” I replied, with forced confidence. “It’s my special holiday feast.”
We sat down, and they began to serve themselves. I held my breath as they each took a piece of turkey, followed by a heaping spoonful of mashed potatoes. Mom took the first bite of the turkey and politely chewed, her eyes watering slightly as she swallowed.
“Oh, um, interesting flavor!” she said, dabbing at her mouth with her napkin.
Hafi was already halfway through her garlic-loaded potatoes when she paused, her expression a mix of surprise and discomfort. “Is that… garlic?” she managed to ask.
I nodded, trying to look innocent. “A little. Adds a nice kick, don’t you think?”
They both gave me encouraging smiles, though it was clear they were struggling to finish their portions. The green bean casserole, thankfully, was edible, although it was a bit scorched on top. But the stuffing—my “thickened” disaster—was the final straw.
My little brother took one bite and couldn’t hold back. “Is it… supposed to be this… chewy?”
“It’s… an experimental recipe,” I mumbled, turning red.
Despite the disastrous food, my family was kind enough to finish their meal, making encouraging comments and even asking for seconds of the green bean casserole. I finally burst out laughing and admitted my many mistakes, from the broiled turkey to the garlic overload.
“Cooking a holiday feast isn’t easy, is it?” my mom said, laughing along with me. “But you did an amazing job for your first try, Snow.”
Hafi nodded, raising her glass of juice. “To Snow, the bravest chef we know. Next time, maybe stick with a little less garlic.”
We toasted, and despite the culinary chaos, it turned out to be a holiday dinner I’d never forget. And although I might have learned a few things about cooking, the biggest lesson was that no recipe could compete with laughter and family… even if dinner is a bit burnt.
