Burn up Some Pans

Fires burned on the stove. Bubbles of greens and gravy spilled over and Alanda Seams quickly wiped up the mess. She brushed back a tear. Nearly a month ago, her mother had managed Thanksgiving with aplomb. She felt challenged.

The internet videos all showed her how to bake the turkey and the ham and the macaroni and cheese. It was five o’clock in the morning and she still had to bake pumpkin pie.

As she lifted the pots and pans to put on the heat, she baked the monkey bread as well. More splashing came from the stovetop. The low sounds of bubbles spilling over like jewels from the mouths of cherubim did not disturb the occupants of the house which totalled thirteen.

Alanda’s face looked like she had just seen warfare. No smile. Not even a slight grin. Through this, though, she fought to have the sweet potatoes warm along with the other foodstuff.

Then she heard tiny feet. “Good morning and Merry Christmas Aunt Alanda,” her seven-year-old nephew Joaquin said. “Can I help?” He stood there in green and red pajamas he opened the night before.

I wish you could but I’m about done now, baby.” Then, more gravy oozed from the pot.

“Actually, maybe you can. Here stand on this small ladder. Make sure you stir it well, okay?”

“Okay,” he replied. Joaquin stirred and stirred with a vigor and a purpose that belied his inexperience.

With all the food she prepared, there appeared to be a bounty for the family to enjoy.

“That should be enough, Joaquin. Thank you, baby,” she reminded him. “You go back to bed, now.”

He left the kitchen. Just as soon as Joaquin exited, there existed a hum of glory and solace that Alanda didn’t prepare to experience. She made Christmas.