“Well, dinner should be served at 2 p.m. sharp. The Sanders prefer to eat early. I’d say you should start around 4:00 a.m. to be safe. Maybe 3:30 if you want everything to be perfect.”
“Four a.m.,” I repeated.
“Start cooking at four in the morning,” she said more firmly this time, handing me the guest list. “And make sure everything is perfect this time.”
Hudson looked up then, but only to add his own emphasis.
“Yeah, and make sure everything is perfect this time. The stuffing was a little dry last year.”
The stuffing that I’d made while simultaneously managing six other dishes while he watched football in the living room. The stuffing that everyone else had complimented. The stuffing that his mother had specifically requested I make again this year.
“Of course,” I heard myself say. “Of course, I’ll make sure everything’s perfect.”
But as I stood there holding that list of thirty-two names and a menu that would challenge a restaurant kitchen, something cold settled in the pit of my stomach. It wasn’t just the impossibility of the task they’d assigned me. It was the casual way they’d assigned it, as if my time, my effort, my sanity were commodities they could spend without consideration.
