17. John – Turkey
The kitchen was absolutely out of bounds. This was not an unwritten rule, but rather a written one. John carefully smoothed the piece of paper on the wall at the top of the stairs and made his way back down to the kitchen, two steps at a time. He cracked his fingers. It was time to get to work…
It was no secret that Grandma Tracy's ability to cook was…less than average. John bent down and rummaged through the lower kitchen cupboards, searching for the roasting pans. This was a fact that they had lived with for many years. Residing on Five the majority of the year, John did not suffer as much as his brothers. He had his space rations and bagels. They had…burnt. Not one thing specifically. Just…burnt.
Pulling a large roasting pan from the cupboard, John straightened his long back and set it on the kitchen counter. Then he headed for the fridge.
He hadn't even intended to be down on Earth for Thanksgiving – when was the last time he had made the choice to come down? He opened the refrigerator and shivered at the blast of cold. It had to be a good six years since he'd chosen to do so. He had been down more recently than that at the coaxing – and eventual ordering – of their father. But last year, he hadn't been down. Last year, there hadn't even been a Thanksgiving dinner. No one had felt much like giving thanks when the lynchpin of their family had been wrenched away.
With no Jeff, there was no desire to have any celebration. Christmas that year had almost been cancelled altogether, rescued only at the last minute by Lady Penelope and Parker arriving in a whirlwind of gifts.
This year, John hadn't intended to return to Earth for Thanksgiving, even if they had planned to have dinner. Why bother? Dad was still gone… There wasn't a lot of give thanks for.
It wasn't until Gordon and Alan had put their goddamned adorable puppy dog eyes together and begged.
"Please, John," they had said. "Please. Come down and cook for us. We need you!"
How could he refuse?
Reaching in, he pulled the ten kilo turkey from the shelf and tutted. Why did they even need a ten kilo turkey?
He'd done the preparation earlier. The oven had been preheated. He'd already done the mathematics. 20 minutes per kilogram plus 90 minutes – which left him plenty of time to prep the rest of the meal.
The turkey went on the roasting tin with its criss-cross rack. The tin went in the oven. Then oven door was closed. John washed his hands at the sink and wiped them dry on the front of his apron, then planted his hands on his hips.
He didn't want to do any of these things. But the memory of those two sets of puppy dog eyes kept coming back. And thus, he started to peel and endless bucket of potatoes – with a ghost of a smile on his face.