“Like this?” June sliced the apple in half with great enthusiasm and vigor. The top half skittered on a dusting of flour before landing on the floor with a thud. The bottom of the Granny Smith wobbled, then spiraled in an elliptical orbit of green and white, straight toward the pie crust Helen was rolling on the other half of the countertop.
Helen caught the escaping half and returned it to June, pursing her lips slightly before putting on what June thought of as her diplomat face. “Not quite, dear, you forgot to peel that one before slicing.”
Peter snagged the apple half on the floor with poorly suppressed laughter making the corners of his mouth twitch. “I think they’re supposed to be cut down the vertical middle, not the horizontal.”
“Hush,” Helen said. “I’m glad June wanted to help. I don’t see you helping, now do I.”
“I warned you, Mum.” He rinsed off the apple half, took a bite of the fruit, and wrenched his head sideways at the tartness.
“Peter Caden Ridere, I did not raise you to be rude.” Helen gave a full body wave of the rolling pin in his direction, her salt and pepper hair emphatically shifting with the effort. A strand stuck to her forehead. “Check on the turkey, love.”
“It’s true,” June rushed to reassure her. A cloud of flour rose as she tried to dust off her clothing. She gave up and began to use the chef’s knife to peel the apple skin back. “People don’t normally let me in the kitchen.”
“I do appreciate the assistance. I’d like to make sure it’s right before we have the faculty over. We cooked a few times to host Americans, of course, but this will be our first Thanksgiving in the United States.”
“Practice makes perfect. And gives us extra dinner.” The scent of cooking poultry filled the kitchen. Peter studied the steaming pot of potatoes on the stainless steel professional model stove. “Bird looks fine. These are close to boiling.”
“How small is the apple supposed to be without the peel?” June asked. “Ow!”
Red drops dripped onto the countertop, just as the water overflowed with a hiss. The gas burner flickered out. Helen sighed.
“There’ll be bandages under the sink in that lav off to the side there, love. Peter, if you aren’t going to help, why don’t you taste test that pumpkin pie and get out of the way?”
June headed for the restroom to clean up with a tea towel clenched in her hand. Helen turned off the stove and eyed the potatoes.
Peter beelined for the orange circle to cut himself the first slice. “Smells great. Like autumn, all cinnamon and nutmeg. I’ve grown partial to the diner’s pies.”
“This custard’s a new recipe,” Helen admitted, stirring the potatoes with a wooden spoon and turning the burner on again. “June helped me make it earlier today.”
He coughed into a napkin. “I can tell.”
She smacked his hand with the dripping wooden spoon. “What did I say about being rude? It can’t be that bad. Just a bit of an incident with the pressure cooker, and we cleaned up most of the mess before you got here.”
“Other than the stains on the ceiling, sure.” Peter reached into the napkin and pulled out a metal teaspoon. “Flavor’s great, except for the extra iron.”
Helen’s lips opened, but air merely wheezed between her teeth for a few seconds. “Well.” Another breath. “Well.”
June reentered the formerly spotless kitchen, mumbling apologies. “Let me just clean this up.”
She wiped down the counter with a paper towel, pulling apple peels the size of sliced apples toward the trash can, holding the bag in one hand. The trash can bounced away with a ringing clang of metal. June knocked the handle of the knife she’d cut herself with an elbow. She spun, and the blade slid straight through the plastic bag of trash to embed in the floorboards. Potato, carrot, and apple peels oozed onto the once-pristine floor, mixing with flour to form a slippery paste that piled against the steel knife.
A gizzard plopped onto the hilt. June backed away, into the counter. “Oof. My kidneys.” She bit her lip and overcorrected with a wild swing of her arm. Helen’s wine glass crashed to the other side of the kitchen island.
Helen sucked air through her teeth again. And again, with an odd whistle. She snatched a hot pad and tossed it at June. “Out! Out of my kitchen!”
Peter chortled, following his girlfriend as she fled out the back door and into chill autumn air. “Wait until you hear the egg salad story.”
***
Becky Jones prompted me this week with “It seemed that breaking things was becoming a habit for her.” My prompt went to nother Mike, inspired by a recent morning’s drive: The sky suited the day, with bruised-peach coloration and a red-tinged moon.
