“Fine,” I said. “We’ll buy a turkey pot pie and cut it into equal slivers. And the story of my epic turkey fail will be immortalized into family history, told and retold at every Thanksgiving for the rest of my life. With my luck, my family will think it makes a good St. Patrick’s Day story, too. And let’s not forget the instantaneous family Facebook post competition.”

John’s thumbs pranced away on his phone. He looked up. “The Food and Drug Administration site says that if the plastic packaging containing the giblets has changed shape in any way during cooking, do not use either the turkey or the giblets because harmful chemicals from the packaging may have penetrated the meat.”

I leaned over the sink for a closer look. “How exactly are we supposed to tell what shape the packaging was to begin with?”

Polly leaned in beside me. “I think they mean if the packaging has started to melt. I have total pregnancy nose, and I don’t smell any melted plastic at all.”

John came over to check things out for himself. “Looks fine to me.”

“Crisis averted.” I blew out a puff of air. “Fingers crossed it’s all smooth sailing from here.”

John and Polly nodded encouragingly, as if wishing might make it so.

Polly had borrowed the turkey cookie cutter from our classroom. I watched her shape canned turkey paté dog and cat food into the perfect Thanksgiving breakfast feast.

“Genius,” I said. “You’re so creative.”

Polly smiled. “Thanks.” She was barely awake and she was glowing already, her pink cheeks making her freckles pop. Strands of tinsel gray lit up her auburn hair. Her baby bump looked cute and unintimidating, more like a fashion accessory than something that encased a real-life person-to-be. I liked Polly. But if I was really honest with myself, I’d probably like her a lot more if I was pregnant, too.

John fed Horatio in the kitchen, while Polly and I carried the feline paté turkeys into the former family room, which was now the official cat room.

I turned the cut-glass doorknob, bumped the old door open with my hip. The four kittens, boys all—Sunshine, Squiggy, Oreo, and The Great Catsby—made a wobbly dash for us, mewing away. Pebbles, the mama cat, climbed up to the safety of the bookshelf, her emerald eyes sparkling. I stepped over the kittens, stayed low, slid Pebbles’ dish to the other end of her shelf. She waited until I moved away again, then dug in.