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Aunt Susanna’s Thanksgiving Dinner
by
“Girls, this is the chance of your lives,” said Laura. “If you can only please Aunt Susanna with this dinner it will convince her that you are good cooks in spite of your nefarious bent for music and literature. I consider the illness of Miranda Mary’s mother a Providential interposition–that is, if she isn’t too sick.”
“It’s all very well for you to be pleased, Lolla,” I said dolefully. “But I don’t feel jubilant over the prospect at all. Something will probably go wrong. And then there’s our own nice little Thanksgiving celebration we’ve planned, and pinched and economized for weeks to provide. That is half spoiled now.”
“Oh, what is that compared to Margaret’s chance of going to college?” exclaimed Kate. “Cheer up, Aggie. You know we can cook. I feel that it is now or never with Aunt Susanna.”
I cheered up accordingly. We are not given to pessimism which is fortunate. Ever since father died four years ago we have struggled on here, content to give up a good deal just to keep our home and be together. This little gray house–oh, how we do love it and its apple trees–is ours and we have, as aforesaid, a tiny income and our ambitions; not very big ambitions but big enough to give zest to our lives and hope to the future. We’ve been very happy as a rule. Aunt Susanna has a big house and lots of money but she isn’t as happy as we are. She nags us a good deal–just as she used to nag father–but we don’t mind it very much after all. Indeed, I sometimes suspect that we really like Aunt Susanna tremendously if she’d only leave us alone long enough to find it out.
Thursday morning was an ideal Thanksgiving morning–bright, crisp and sparkling. There had been a white frost in the night, and the orchard and the white birch wood behind it looked like fairyland. We were all up early. None of us had slept well, and both Kate and I had had the most fearful dreams of spoiling Aunt Susanna’s Thanksgiving dinner.
“Never mind, dreams always go by contraries, you know,” said Laura cheerfully. “You’d better go up to the Pinery early and get the fires on, for the house will be cold. Remember the McGinnises and the dog. Weigh the turkey so that you’ll know exactly how long to cook it. Put the pies in the oven in time to get piping hot–lukewarm mince pies are an abomination. Be sure–“
“Laura, don’t confuse us with any more cautions,” I groaned, “or we shall get hopelessly fuddled. Come on, Kate, before she has time to.”
It wasn’t very far up to the Pinery–just ten minutes’ walk, and such a delightful walk on that delightful morning. We went through the orchard and then through the white birch wood where the loveliness of the frosted boughs awed us. Beyond that there was a lane between ranks of young, balsamy, white-misted firs and then an open pasture field, sere and crispy. Just across it was the Pinery, a lovely old house with dormer windows in the roof, surrounded by pines that were dark and glorious against the silvery morning sky.
The McGinnis dog was sitting on the back-door steps when we arrived. He wagged his tail ingratiatingly, but we ruthlessly pushed him off, went in and shut the door in his face. All the little McGinnises were sitting in a row on their fence, and they whooped derisively. The McGinnis manners are not those which appertain to the caste of Vere de Vere; but we rather like the urchins–there are eight of them–and we would probably have gone over to talk to them if we had not had the fear of Aunt Susanna before our eyes.
We kindled the fires, weighed the turkey, put it in the oven and prepared the vegetables. Then we set the dining-room table and decorated it with Aunt Susanna’s potted ferns and dishes of lovely red apples. Everything went so smoothly that we soon forgot to be nervous. When the turkey was done, we took it out, set it on the back of the range to keep warm and put the mince pies in. The potatoes, cabbage and turnips were bubbling away cheerfully, and everything was going as merrily as a marriage bell. Then, all at once, things happened.