Jenny hates cooking. She can cook - simple stuff, things that come out of cans and containers, things she can mix and heat and fry and boil, but she hates to. Corbyn tried to teach her to love it, one of the countless things he tried to cram into their (as she knows now) limited time they had together, but cooking just makes her think of having to cook for herself, of having nobody to take care or pay attention. Food is survival, and survival is something she understands keenly, but understanding doesn't equal love.
This Thanksgiving, though. In the world taken over by the chaos of supernatural (and Jenny always knew, but knowledge apparently doesn't equal acceptance), and in the bright chaos of streets and houses and people after the organized quiet of the asylum, Thanksgiving has to mean something, and Jenny tries to recapture it. So she makes the turkey, and she makes the pie, and she goes out to buy pretty napkins and digs out Abbie's decent china, and she tries to make her every move count. To fill it with her fierce, unexpected desire to have her world be whole again.
The turkey's burnt, the pie's flat and tastes weird, the gravy's thin: desire, of course, rarely equals success. She's disappointed but not surprised, and watches Abbie's face for the tilted eyebrow, pursed lips, disapproval and disappointment. Mad Jenny, little Jenny, not up to her task.
Abbie chews, swallows, smiles. Abbie says: "Thank you." Abbie says: "Happy Thanksgiving."
Abbie says: "I missed you."
Abbie, Jenny thinks (and knowledge, sometimes, equals love), understands.