“Everything’s mental if you’re not in shape,” Uncle Bic gasps from the bench, where his wife fans him and tries to get him to drink water.
Just to be a dick, Fletcher does a stutter step as he comes at Hudson, sending him tripping over his own stick. The puck zips past, and Fletcher barrels toward the net, glancing over his shoulder with a wink.
Hudson curses Fletcher as he races to goal then fires a shot on my dad. My dad braces himself in goal. Fletcher fakes left, fakes right, then fires—and absolutely roofs it over my dad’s shoulder.
“Goddamn it,” my father mutters as the puck hits the back of the net.
Fletcher skates back, triumphant and grinning, slapping hands with the Finn and my cousins as they whoop and holler.
“Not bad for a guy who got here on a forged stat sheet,” I say, smirking.
Fletcher loops around, snow spraying up as he stops short beside me. “What can I say? I play better when I’m trying to impress my girlfriend’s family.”
“Isthis traditional in your country? A Christmas barbecue?” the Finn asks, genuinely concerned as he watches one of my uncles try to light a pile of wood with a homemade holiday candle an aunt gave away as a stocking stuffer and the confidence of a man who’s definitely been hitting the spiked punch hard.
“Oh, this isn’t a barbecue,” I tell him, grinning. “You’ll have to come back for the Fourth of July.”
“Yeah,” Harlowe adds, already halfway through a spiked hot chocolate. “Fireworks, red meat, and a good ol’ game of ‘find uncle Art’s fingers.’”
The Finn blinks, horrified. He points at the huge metal pot balanced precariously over a propane burner. “But… you are cooking something.”
“That?” I shrug. “We’re just deep-frying a turkey. Thanksgiving extras. They were on sale.”
The Finn actually gags. I’m not even sure if it’s exaggerated for effect.
I help one of my cousins dig two rock-solid turkeys out of the snowbank beside the garage. “Don’t make that face, Ren,” I say as I pass one to him. “I know you deep-fry turkeys in Mississippi.”
“Yeah, but we thaw ’em first,” he mutters. “And we sure as hell don’t bury ’em.”
“It’s fine,” I insist. “The snow keeps them cold. Nature’s freezer.”
“It’s not right,” the Finn mutters.
“You literally bury your food outside in Finland.” Fletcher smirks at Heikkiläinen.
“Not… an entire bird carcass,” the Finn replies flatly.
“Turkey! Turkey! Turkey!” my brothers chant, parading the birds toward the fire like a triumphant offering to the gods of poor decision-making.
Ren hurries over to where my uncles are poking at the fire under the bubbling oil with broom handles. “That oil ain’t hot enough!”
“Do you need a thermometer?” I offer.
“I’ll know it’s hot enough—I can feel it.” Ren passes his palm over the tops of the bubbling vats of oil then adds more wood to the fire until the flames lick the rim of the pots.
Then, without so much as a countdown, he drops a bird in.
For one single second, everything is silent.
And then—
FOOOOOOM!
A flaming tower of oil erupts into the air. Everyone screams and runs. It’s total chaos.
Fletcher and Hudson move in like they’re storming a bunker, grabbing fire extinguishers from the porch and grimly aiming them at the turkeys.
“Don’t ruin the food!” Ren rails, jumping in front of them while behind him, the last few leaves left on the dormant oak tree catch fire.
