Jeneration X: One Reluctant Adult's Attempt to Unarrest Her Arrested Development; Or, Why It's Never by Lancaster, Jen (e books free to read .txt) 📕

on the back deck, with zip ties adding an extra measure of security against rats. In holidays past, my mother used to store all our leftovers on the hood of the car in the garage, so my dad’s vehicle always had little dings on it from the Pyrex bowls of unwanted fat-free stuffing. Fletch threatens me with an untimely death if I try to do the same to his car, so deck it is.

I still make a cake, though, because you just never know.

Stacey’s been here next to me, working through lunch and now dinner. We’ve been ass-deep in pans and pies and potato peels and plungers. [Here’s a fun fact—don’t put potato peels in the garbage disposal unless you like having mung water back into every sink on the first floor after they’ve already been cleaned in anticipation of the big day. Also, invest in a wet-dry vac. Trust me on this one.]

“It’s so hard. Why is it so hard?” I cry as I use a floury hand to wipe my sweaty brow.

Stacey, covered in bread crumbs and homemade cream of mushroom soup splatters, is almost too shell-shocked to answer. She rocks a little when she finally replies. “Time and action plan meant for many days, not one day. Not one day. Never one day.”

“Maybe we should have some pie to help us along?” I suggest.

“No pie. Just finish. Just finish. See vampires. Just finish.”

I hug her briefly before continuing to peel my butternut squash over the open garbage can. Peels are falling all over the previously clean floor and at this point, I don’t care.

I just want to be done.

I just want to sit down.

I just want to share the magic of Twilight with Stacey.

I just want us to watch Bella make out with her creepy, stalker boyfriend who, really, should be arrested on statch charges because she’s seventeen and he’s what, at least a hundred years old?

I just want her to roll her eyes with me over the wooden performances and stilted dialogue, despite still secretly wanting to hug myself afterward because I love all of it so much.

And as soon as the butternut soup is set to simmer, we can do this. Fletch has the DVD cued up and everything.

We still have to get through peeling and de-seeding the mountain of squash before we can sauté the chunks with onion and butter. After everything softens up, we have to use an immersion blender to break the squash into small bits and mix it with the pumpkin, and then we’ll make it extra creamy and smooth via chinois strainer before we can add the cream and nutmeg.

I steal little bites of everything during the cooking process and am confident that this dish is going to kick off the dinner in the most delicious fashion possible.

We need to let the soup cool before we put it away, and now the plan is to grab something to drink and finally get off our feet.

“Stace, you want some wine? I have an open bottle of some decent Chardonnay.”

“If I have one glass, I’ll pass out and die. How about some water?”

I go over to the cabinet next to the stove to retrieve a glass. Because we’ve been extremely conscientious about not having to work around dirty dishes, we’ve been vigilant about unloading the dishwasher and thus, our undersized glass cabinet is stacked a bit too tightly.

It’s stacked so tightly, in fact, that when I open it, one of my favorite juice glasses falls out and breaks on the countertop.

Right next to the uncovered pot of soup.

And when I say “break,” I don’t mean a couple of big chunks that could be reassembled. I mean, smashed, pulverized, exploded, stomped on like a Jewish wedding and tempering joy by flinging tiny bits of juice glass to the four corners of the kitchen.

“Do you think the soup’s okay?” I ask. “Like, if we strained it?”

She mournfully shakes her head. “Oh, honey, no. That juice glass didn’t just break; it detonated. That soup was a shopkeeper’s window and the glass was an SA storm trooper. That was Kristallnacht. Serve the soup to your guests and you’re going to kill them and their families will sue and then you’ll really hate this holiday.”

All of which means if I want to serve soup tomorrow, I’ve got to go back to Whole Foods for more butternut squash. Tonight. The evening before Thanksgiving.

The horror… the horror…

We don’t have enough room at the big table for everyone, so I have to annex the table in the kitchen for the kids. Growing up, I was always stuck at the kids’ table and it sucked so I wanted to make sure this wasn’t the case for our young guests. I decorate the table with tons of candies and little games and flowers. I’ve made it so appealing that I kind of want to sit there.

We ironed all the linens earlier in the week, and I started to set the table days ahead of time until I found cats sitting in the soup bowls. I chased them away thinking, I wonder if Martha Stewart has to put up with this shit? I had to unset and wash everything and we don’t redo it until this afternoon once we put the cats away.

It’s five o’clock and the guests should begin to arrive any minute.

After what feels like forty-eight hours of hard labor, I’m ready for this.

Okay, fine, I have mashed potatoes in my hair, the sink is stacked to the ceiling with dishes, and Maisy just barfed up shrimp tails on the living room rug, but the liquor’s chilled and I’m happy.

The next six hours are a blur of good food, great wine, and loosened belts. There’s football and Bond flicks playing on televisions throughout the house and although there’s a little shouting, it’s only so everyone can hear each other over all the laughter.

There’s enough pie left over to send every family home with one, and, due to