Christmas Turkey Blues
David stared down at the six-pound turkey, promised to be juicy and tender, now crispy and blackened by his own inept hands. It would be un-manly to cry, but he felt a lump creeping into his throat. Think of puppies and cupcakes, David.
"How's it coming?" came Jack's voice from the other room, both hopeful and resigned. He could probably smell the singed turkey flesh.
How could this be fixed?
"It's fine!" David cried out with barely masked panic. "Totally fine!" A quick and desperate rummage through the cupboards provided David with a bottle of hot sauce. He stood over the bird, wielding the bottle like a light saber, preparing to douse it in spicy red juice and save his fiancÚ's Christmas when said fiancÚ entered the kitchen in traditional Christmas pajamas (red with cowboys).
"Are you sure? What's that smell? Like --"
Jack stopped short when he saw the withered black wings poking out of the roasting pan. "Oh. Oh, David," he sighed.
"It's not my fault!" David wailed, waving the hot sauce. "I'm a Jew! We're not known for our skills with poultry!"
Jack began to laugh and opened his arms wide, gesturing for David to come to him. He felt better, tucking his curl-covered head under Jack's strong chin.
"I knew I shouldn't have let you try to make a turkey," Jack sighed.
"I just wanted to give you a nice Christmas," David said softly. "Since your parents are so far away."
Jack wrinkled his nose. "Please, a Christmas with my parents? Completely miserable. My mother's turkey-cooking skills are barely better than yours. At least now we have the option of ordering take-out, rather than choking down burnt turkey."
"I know, but I feel like I owe you a nice dinner after you suffered Hanukkah with my parents," David whined.
"Hey, that was a nice evening."
"It was Chinese food and two hours of my baby videos."
"The holidays just the way I like them. Greasy fast food and your naked butt," Jack grinned, and kissed David on the nose. "Pizza? Unless you really want to eat that turkey."
David glanced back at the poor, shrivelled bird, a once promising meal that had died a swift, overcooked death from David's over-eagerness and misunderstanding of how ovens work. It still might be salvaged by the hot sauce, or at least a lot of gravy, but...
Jack kissed him again, this time on the forehead, and went for the cordless phone.
He paused halfway out of the room, stopped by David's strangled cry.
"I love you."
It was too soon. It was way too soon and the horrible, messed up turkey was a symbol of that, a sign that he didn't belong in Jack's world and Jack didn't belong in his, but poultry and Chinese food be damned, he did love him. Jack grinned again, wider than before. "I love you too, Dave. Merry Christmas."
David smiled, relieved. "Merry Christmas, Jack. And no anchovies."