Lily and the Octopus(30)

When I finish telling this story to Lily she laughs and says, “That was my favorite Thanksgiving.”

“It was not your favorite day-after-Thanksgiving.”

Lily thinks about this and delivers a flat, “Oh, yeah.” Ever since then I’ve boiled the carcass for soup.

“Roasting the Big One” suggests cooking the bird breast side down for one hour at 425 degrees to crisp the skin and seal in the juices before lowering the temperature to 325 degrees and flipping the bird breast side up until the turkey registers 165 on a meat thermometer. Overall, this should make the cooking time between four and five hours.

The oven radiates a lot of heat on this already warm summer day, and Lily and I nap between bastings to escape from it. We don’t have a lot of other Thanksgiving activities, so I play my DVD of Home for the Holidays starring Holly Hunter. Halfway through the movie, I have to start peeling vegetables. I let the movie run for Lily while I get on with preparing the meal.

Trent arrives around five.

“Wow. It smells great in here. Did you make pumpkin bread?”

“No,” I reply, annoyed. What with the turkey, the stuffing, the potatoes, the squash, the gravy, and the green beans, I didn’t have time to make pumpkin bread.

“It’s not really Thanksgiving without pumpkin bread.” Trent pouts.

“It’s not really Thanksgiving at all.”

Trent uncovers the pot containing the mashed potatoes and sticks his finger in. He scoops up a mouthful with his index finger and tells me they need more butter. “What else am I tasting?”

“In the potatoes?”

He nods.

“Nutmeg.” It’s my secret ingredient.

Trent goes to the fridge and grabs himself a beer. “Can I see the octopus?”

“Lily’s in the living room. But, hey”—I grab Trent by the elbow—“let’s not mention him again tonight.”

I follow Trent because he’s my best friend and I know his reaction will tell me everything I need to know. He will cut through the bullshit and give it to me straight. Lily is asleep, octopus-side up, giving us both a good view.

“Oh, god.” His reaction confirms what I already know, that this is a big f*cking deal and there’s no messing around. “Have you made a decision about what you’re going to do?”

“I’ve decided not to talk about it on Thanksgiving.”

When it’s time to sit down at the table, I produce three hats I purchased from a store that sells old movie costumes. Two tall pilgrim hats for Trent and myself, each with a smart buckle, and a pilgrim bonnet with chin straps for Lily. (What movie these were from, I have no idea.) Trent balks at wearing his hat but I say, without room for negotiation, “Put it on.”

When I affix Lily’s hat, the octopus, who has been eyeing the day’s activities with suspicion, says, “What are you doing? I might like turkey. Or Tofurky.” He rolls the one eye I can see.

“Unfortunately, you’re not invited.” I place the bonnet on Lily, covering the octopus completely. For once, she doesn’t protest the idea of wearing something. I lift her up to her chair and set her on a pillow that boosts her up to proper table height.

“Let’s begin by saying what we are thankful for while I carve the turkey.”

TOFURKY! Lily corrects, incorrectly.

The turkey looks so beautiful that I almost don’t want to carve it. It seems golden and crisp and juicy and delicious; whoever wrote “Roasting the Big One” knew what they were talking about. But once I make the first cut, to slice off a drumstick, the smell that fills the room produces such hunger pangs that I realize I haven’t eaten all day. It’s hard not to just tear into the thing with my teeth.

Trent starts. Despite the lack of pumpkin bread and his having to wear a hat, he’s getting into the spirit of the whole thing.

“I’m thankful for Matt and for Weezie,” he begins, listing his boyfriend and his bulldog. “I’m thankful for good friends, of course.” He raises his glass to Lily and me. “And for good food, continued success, and togetherness. And the Dallas Cowboys.”

I’m suddenly aware that the sounds of football and parades are missing from our makeshift holiday.

“Lily, how about you?”

I’M! THANKFUL! FOR! TOFURKY!

“What else?” I ask.

THAT’S! ALL! TOFURKY! ME! She licks her chops.

“Okay, I’ll go.” I slide a few slices of turkey into Lily’s supper dish, and a few more onto Trent’s plate and mine. “I, too, am thankful for friends and for Tofurky. And for leftover Tofurky sandwiches, and the adventure of Thanksgiving in June. I’m thankful for family. My sister, Meredith, called to say I am going to be an uncle again, and I love being an uncle.”

“Congratulations!” Trent says. I hold up a finger to say I’m not done.

“But most of all, I am thankful for Lily, who, since she entered my life, has taught me everything I know about patience and kindness and meeting adversity with quiet dignity and grace. No one makes me laugh harder, or want to hug them tighter. You have truly lived up to the promise of man’s best friend.”

Trent throws his fork at me, because he doesn’t like the idea of anyone but himself being called my best friend, but I toss the fork back, asking him to think in a larger context. Lily looks at me in annoyance, her shade made even cuter by her pilgrim bonnet; all this praise is just delaying our meal.