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7
ATTICUS
After the hot tub, we both showered and met up in the kitchen. I had to get the turkey brining for tomorrow, and Annie had offered to help. Now I stared down at the plucked bird on my counter and wondered if I should have gotten a smaller one.
“Oh my, that’s a large turkey.” She appeared, her hair damp and pulled back into a braid. Her cheeks were still pink from the hot tub, and her eyes sparkled back at me.
“I was just thinking the same thing.”
She pointed at the trash can I’d lined with a new plastic bag and filled halfway with water. “What’s that for? “
“We’re putting her in there,” I said. “To brine.”
“Oh, right. Brining. Very important.”
“Have you ever made a turkey?” I asked.
“In fact, no. My recipes usually involve takeout.”
“Mine too. But I wanted to host this year in my new house. Now I’m wondering if this was such a great idea. I don’t want to disappoint Caspian.”
“We better get her in her bath then,” Annie said.
I poured the brine mix into the water. Dried apples, oranges, and herbs floated to the surface.
“Here goes.” I lifted the bird from the counter, perhaps too quickly, for she slipped right out of my hands and onto the floor, then glided toward the island, wings jiggling as if she were trying to fly away.
Scout, who had been resting in her bed, leaped up and ran over to see what all the fuss was about. She stopped dead in her tracks when she saw the naked turkey smooshed up against the island and started barking furiously, while moving backward in tiny incremental steps.
The humans in the kitchen started howling with laughter. Annie doubled over, and I hung on to the counter for dear life.
She pulled herself together before I did and lunged for our slippery featherless friend, taking her up in both arms as if she were a fat toddler in a sandbox.
The look of her hugging that thing against her chest was too much. I laughed even harder.
She got to the trash can and then dropped our escape artist into the water. Watery brine splashed onto her T-shirt, causing the fabric to cling to her. A dried orange hung just below her collarbone.
Do not look at her chest.
Scout had stopped barking and fixated on the trash can, her body tensed.
“That water’s cold,” Annie said, picking the orange from her shirt and tossing it back into the mix.
“If this is a premonition for the rest of our cooking experiences, I’m worried.” I wiped my eyes and reached under the sink for some bacterial cleaning spray. “I better get this cleaned up, or we could poison everyone.” I babbled, doing everything I could not to stare at her wet torso. I’d done well in the hot tub, keeping my gaze averted. For the most part. I’d seen enough toknow I’d like to continue admiring her. However, the last thing I wanted was to be disrespectful. We were practically strangers.
“I’ll go get changed,” Annie said. “Maybe shower again too.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, a laugh threatening to rise again.
“I blame the bird.”
While she was away, I cleaned the floor and counter of raw turkey juice and brine. By the time I was finished, I was hot and sweaty. Cooking was hard work.
I, too, showered and changed into a new sweatshirt and then returned to the kitchen. Minutes later, Annie reappeared, wearing a long-sleeved cotton shirt. She’d pulled her hair back into a ponytail. Silver hoops dangled from her ears.
“What now?” Annie asked.
“Nothing until tomorrow. What would you like to do instead of wrestling turkeys?”
