Frank Sinatra broke into a scratchy version of “The Way You Look Tonight.” It was an odd song choice for a tango. A tango was an odd dance for Thanksgiving morning. But there was nothing odder than watching my womanizing widower father dancing with my single and pregnant teaching assistant.

When my father danced Polly across the floor of the den-slash-playroom-slash-cat room, she was almost as light on her feet as Pink.

Chapter Five

My father stuck Pink in the flower pot next to the front door and then drifted back to the trailer. Polly peeled and cut the butternut squash and helped me set the table and then wandered upstairs. John peeled the potatoes and did whatever you do with giblets and then went off to take Horatio for a walk.

Some of the many and myriad online sources I’d consulted questioned the necessity of basting a turkey while it roasted. But I wasn’t taking any chances. Plus, I figured that even if basting didn’t make the turkey taste better, the extra effort would make me feel better.

So once the bird started giving off its juices, I set the timer on my phone to go off every half hour. For backup, I twisted the vintage kitchen timer until it reached the thirty-minute mark.

I visualized my whole family being razzle-dazzled by my culinary feat. I kept my focus. I snapped the ends off a big family’s worth of green beans. I took the pies we’d baked yesterday out of the refrigerator. Before they went in the oven, I’d distressed the frozen crusts with the back of a fork so they’d look homemade rather than store bought. Now I gave them a few gentle karate chops with a knife just for added faux authenticity.

My phone and the kitchen timer went off simultaneously.

“See,” I said to the empty kitchen. “We’ve got this.”

I found my mother’s old turkey baster with the faded turquoise handle, grabbed two worn potholders.

Maybe it was my lack of sleep that did it. I grasped the oven handle and pulled up. Then I remembered how to open an oven and pulled out.

The entire oven door came off in my hands.

If you’ve never held a vintage oven door in one potholdered hand, you have no idea how heavy they are. I grabbed the handle with my other hand for backup.

I thought for a moment, considering my options.

Then I aimed the metal latches that were now sticking out of the door at the oven, which seemed like a reasonable thing to do.

After that I pushed. The latches slid into the front of the oven a little way and then came right back out.

I backed up a few steps to get some momentum going. I rammed the door against the oven with all my strength. It didn’t stay on.