Songs Mentioned:
The Logical Song, Supertramp
Back in Black, AC/DC
Paradise City, Guns 'N Roses
Chapter 10: Domesticated
JPOV
Wednesday October 5th, 2005,
Catskills, NY
I am not prepared to talk about Anya's drunken night and the ensuing Mount Vesuvius that erupted all over my vintage Levi's t-shirt I'd had since the 60s that was utterly destroyed. So don't ask.
Instead, a few days later I came back from an early morning hunt to find Anya on the porch, already dressed and waiting for me. She held a thermos of coffee, looking adorable in her beanie—or tuque, as she called it.
"Hey, Tex," she greeted, standing up from the porch steps. "You ready to go, or do you need a shower?"
"Ready for what?" I asked, leaning in to kiss her.
She laughed softly, pushing me away playfully. "Hmmm, don't distract me, Tex. We need to run into town and get a few things." She tossed the keys into my hand before heading to the Range Rover.
I stood there, confused. What supplies? We did groceries three weeks ago. Oh fuck…she doesn't need more wine, does she?!
Sliding into the driver's seat, I glanced over at her, catching the mischief in her eyes. "Anya, what are you planning?" Note to self: hide the vintage t-shirts.
She smiled, calm as ever. "Thanksgiving."
It's October 5th. Thanksgiving is Nov 24th. Six weeks away.
I mean, I don't recall celebrating it when I was human and there wasn't much cause for it during my time with Maria. With the Cullens we took advantage of the week off school to go "camping".
Still feeling like I was missing something, I watched as Anya fiddled with the radio, humming along to a Top 40 song. I ventured another question. "Are we inviting anyone over? I mean, Emmett loves watching the game." Seems weird to ask six weeks out but whatever.
She shot me a sidelong glance, amused. "We could watch the Thanksgiving Day Classic. I'd be happy to explain the rules."
The rules? It's football. And there is no such thing as the Thanksgiving Day Classic that's a ... well shit "I'm a special kind of stupid aren't I Anya?" I asked her ruefully, fully knowing the answer.
She burst out laughing, shaking her head. "I wondered how long it would take you to figure that out," she teased, brushing a light kiss over my hand. "You're welcome to invite them, but I thought it could just be the two of us."
Was Anya planning on buying a 20 lb. bird?
We pulled into the store parking lot, and Anya handed me a quick list. "Can you head over to that nursery we passed? I need half a dozen mums or whatever other large potted plants you can find. I'll meet you back here."
I stared at her, bewildered. I was being sent to buy plants. Potted plants. This woman had truly domesticated me. And suddenly, I realized—I'd never actually bought her flowers. Well, today could change that.
The nursery was overwhelming, full of endless choices. I knew Anya was a Georgia O'Keeffe fan, so when an associate asked if I needed help, I said that's what I wanted—something O'Keeffe-like. Fifteen minutes later, my trunk was loaded with mums and a very expensive flower arrangement.
Back at the store, Anya was waiting near the entrance, her cart much lighter than our previous trip. No 20-pound turkey in sight. She proceeded to open the rear passenger door, and I grabbed the bags, tossing them into the back seat as she handed them to me. I still wasn't sure what she was planning, but she seemed excited, a little bounce in her step as she handed me the last bag.
"I've never cooked the whole meal by myself before," she said, leaning in for a quick kiss before sliding into the passenger seat. I closed the rear door and followed her, settling behind the wheel.
"Well, I hope you're not looking to me to lead the charge," I said, starting the car. I practically burnt the cabin down trying to make her an omelet. The engine hummed as we pulled out of the parking lot, and the sun hung low, casting golden light on the narrow mountain road ahead.
She laughed softly, buckling her seatbelt.
"So, what exactly are you planning to make?" I asked, glancing at her as we hit a bend in the road. Her face lit up before I even finished the question.
"A spiral honey ham. Great for sandwiches the rest of the week. And I'm going to try my Nana's scalloped potatoes, but I'll need your help slicing them—no mandolin in the cabin, and I don't trust myself not to lose a finger. Plus, homemade cranberry sauce and sweet potatoes with brown sugar. Maybe, if I'm feeling adventurous, apple pie." She grinned, satisfied with her plan.
"And you're going to do all that tomorrow?" I asked, taking another curve, my grip tightening on the wheel. It seems like a lot but what the fuck do I know?
Anya shot me a look like I'd grown an extra head. "Why on earth would I do that?" she said.
"Because it's Thanksgiving?" I replied, raising a brow, keeping my tone light.
She chuckled, shaking her head as she turned toward the window, watching the trees blur by. "Tex, Thanksgiving is on Monday. Some families do it on Sunday, but it's usually the second Monday of October."
"Really?" I asked, genuinely surprised.
"Yes, really," she confirmed with a grin. "Though I might make the pie on Sunday. It's been ages since I made pastry."
"You're gonna make everything from scratch?"
She deadpanned. "No, I'm gonna buy store-bought and pass it off as mine."
"Well, I don't know!" I teased, easing into the rhythm of the conversation. "It's not like we had much need for baking before."
She rolled her eyes, pulling her legs up onto the seat, curling into a more comfortable position. "You can help me, you know. I'll probably have you read the recipe to me. And if we screw up, we'll just turn the apples into applesauce."
"I'm not sure how much help I'll be, but okay," I said, trying not to laugh as we passed the last marker before the winding road to the cabin.
"Oh, don't worry," she said, her grin widening. "You're on dish duty. You can scrub the pots and pans. No need to worry about dishpan hands—lucky you, Tex."
How many dishes does she plan to dirty?
Back at the cabin, I parked the car, feeling more than a little uncertain as I thought about the trunk full of potted mums. What the hell was I supposed to do with them?
Anya, already half out of the car, flashed me a bright smile as she grabbed a few grocery bags from the back seat. "I'll get these inside. Why don't you bring the plants around to the porch?"
I gave a short nod, though internally, I was still at a loss. Potted plants. This felt decidedly like 'women's work'; not that I'd ever say that to Anya. Grabbing two of the pots, I carried them to the front porch.
Anya came back out, arms free, and began directing. "Let's start with these on the steps," she said, pointing. "A few leading up to the door, and maybe we can put some on the back porch, overlooking the lake?"
I set the mums down on the steps as she started to arrange them with a practiced hand, stepping back occasionally to study the effect. Her eyes sparkled with satisfaction at the bright pops of autumnal colour against the rustic cabin.
Once we finished with the front porch, I fetched the remaining pots and brought them to the back deck. The lake was still this morning, reflecting the trees in perfect detail. Anya joined me, her fingers tapping her chin thoughtfully.
"These will look perfect out here," she said softly. "Just imagine sitting out, wrapped in blankets, sipping coffee with the leaves all around."
I watched her for a moment, still trying to wrap my head around why she wanted the plants so badly, but I could see how happy it made her. This little slice of domesticity, of normalcy—she cherished it.
"All set," she said, as we arranged the last of the mums.
I couldn't argue with that—it did look pretty good. Once the mums were arranged, I cleared my throat. "There's, uh, something else."
She turned, curious, as I pulled the large floral arrangement from the trunk. It was a mix of soft pastels and deeper colours, chaotic but kind of beautiful in its way.
Anya blinked, surprised. "You got these?" She walked over to get a closer look, her eyes lighting up. "Wow, Jasper. These are gorgeous."
I shrugged, feeling slightly awkward. "Yeah, thought you might like them."
Her smile widened as she took the arrangement from me. "I love them," she said, examining the flowers. "You've never gotten me flowers before."
I scratched the back of my neck. "Figured it was about time."
Anya brought them inside and set the arrangement on the coffee table, taking a moment to admire it before turning back to me. "You did good, Tex. They're beautiful."
Her reaction was warm and genuine, and the way she smiled at me made the whole flower-buying thing feel like it had been the right call.
Sunday, October 9th, 2005
Sunday arrived with the scent of coffee and Supertramp's The Logical Song blaring from the stereo as I returned from a quick run around the property. Yes – that's right, I was taking up running as a pursuit. Vampires like aerobics too. Anya was already knee-deep in Thanksgiving prep, and the kitchen looked like a war zone.
Every counter was packed with ingredients, bowls, and pots. Flour dusted the air, and the aroma of sweet potatoes and brown sugar mingled with the sharp scent of simmering cranberries. Anya stood in the centre, barefoot in skinny jeans, her plaid fitted shirt rolled to the elbows, hair held up with chopsticks. She was humming along, completely absorbed.
She glanced up when I entered, eyes bright. "Morning, Tex! Just in time to slice the potatoes."
I took in the disaster and spluttered without a thought, "You planning to use every dish we own?"
"It's a work in progress," she replied, not bothering to look up at me.
I grabbed a cutting board, shaking my head, but couldn't help smiling as AC/DC's "Back in Black" came on. Anya was in her element, bobbing her head, stirring and whisking with infectious energy. By the time Guns N' Roses kicked in, every dish was dirty, and the sink overflowed with pans. Yet she looked ridiculously happy, humming and whisking like it was the greatest show on earth.
"How many dishes do you need for one meal?" I teased, sliding the sliced potatoes into a pan.
"All of them, apparently," she shot back, turning up the volume.
I started washing dishes to clear some space, grinning despite myself. When Paradise City played, she grabbed a spoon, belting out lyrics with a grin.
Take me down to the Paradise City
Where the grass is green and the girls are pretty
Oh, won't you please take me home? Yeah-yeah
"You're enjoying this," I said.
"Damn right," she laughed. "This is the best part."
Finally, everything made it into the oven, and the kitchen was still a disaster, but Anya looked satisfied, though exhausted. "The scalloped potatoes need an hour; pie bakes at 350 for forty-five minutes. You got this, Tex?"
"Yeah," I assured her.
"Good." She flopped onto the couch and was out cold within seconds, hair falling loose, a streak of flour across her cheek.
With the food securely in the oven, I faced the mountain of dirty dishes. Using my speed, the kitchen was spotless before the pie needed to go in. Anya didn't stir.
When the timer went off, I pulled out the scalloped potatoes and set the table. The scent of cinnamon and nutmeg filled the cabin. Anya stretched, wandered over, and poured herself a glass of Chardonnay (she only bought 2 bottles of wine when we got groceries) before sitting down. She paused, then bowed her head, murmuring a quiet prayer. It surprised me; Anya wasn't one to say grace.
"Force of habit," she explained when she saw me watching. "Thanksgiving is more of a religious holiday. It's about giving thanks for a bountiful harvest."
"Didn't know that" I replied.
"Well, technically, the first Thanksgiving was in 1578 with Sir Martin Frobisher. They had salt beef, biscuits, and mushy peas to celebrate their arrival in present day Nunavut. It's why Canadians often celebrate on a Sunday." She explained between bites of food.
I raised an eyebrow. "So, you had Thanksgiving before us Yanks?"
"Yep," she grinned. "The next official one was Champlain's in 1606, at Port Royal."
"Quebec?" I guessed.
"New Brunswick," she corrected. "But let's not quibble."
I chuckled. "So, we borrowed the idea."
"Pretty much," she said, enjoying the moment. "But you know you're not exactly a Yank, Tex."
I smirked. "You want to call me a Confederate?"
She laughed softly. "Or Major Whitlock?"
"Can't argue with history, darlin'."
She leaned back, cutting into her meal. "Tex suits you better now."
"Why October?" I asked.
"Harvest comes sooner," she said simply, getting up, moving her plate over to settle into my lap. "We're closer to the North Pole. It's about surviving the winter."
I held her close, nodding. "Makes sense. There's more purpose behind it."
She smiled, and I knew this was her way of giving thanks—not just for the meal, but for everything we had in this moment.
She only had three glasses wine that night. I was oh so thankful for that.
A/N: Thanksgiving in 2005 was indeed celebrated on Monday, October 10th in Canada and American Thanksgiving was Thursday November 24th. Yes, I made sure the dates were correct :) Authenticity lol