vailian

A few weeks ago, I took in a homeless American clarinetist, Mike, whose marriage is not functioning properly... anyhow, he loves to cook, and asked if I didn't want to organize a Thanksgiving dinner. OK, I said.
I am not a great cook; my repertoire extends to hot dogs and macaroni and cheese. But in the event, I found myself cooking a 12 lb turkey, cranberry sauce, sweet potatoes with maple syrup and walnut caramel sauce. Mike did squash, stuffing, and mashed potatoes.
Mike brought home the turkey. "Give me the giblets and I will make the stuffing and the gravy", he said, "and you can cook the bird."
"Where are the giblets?" I asked. "Don't know, look inside the bird", he said.
I rummaged around inside and found a little packet and handed it gingerly to him.
"Where is the other kidney?" he asked indignantly. "how should I know," I said.
"those Germans have stolen one of my kidneys," he sputtered. I should add that he says he needs to drink while cooking. He was working on the red wine.
We never did find the second kidney, but there were no complaints from the guests.
A half hour later, I was still trying to stuff the bird. I had to ask him whether one put the stuffing in at the front or the back. He looked at me very pityingly.
Meanwhile, he was making gravy. He announced, "The gravy is done!"
I looked, and there were about 5 tablespoons of gravy for 8 people.
"Am I allowed to stretch this?" I asked.
"Just how were you thinking of stretching it?"
"Don't know, milk and... red wine?"
"If you must.."
I pour a half bottle of merlot and a quart of milk into the saucepan, and stir like crazy. I REALLY want to throw in a package of mushroom soup mix but he is watching me like a hawk.
The guests arrived at that moment. German style, that is at 7:30. Not a minute earlier or later. Simultaneously. There are no excuses with Germans for being late. (Strangely enough, only one of the guests was German, the others were Australian, English, Indian and I don't know what else.)
I am not ready. Not dressed, and don't have drinks poured for the guests. I throw some Glühwein on the stove.
They generally refuse the Glühwein: the Australian and English girls have just come from the Christmas Market and are somewhat illuminated already, and the Englishman has turned Buddhist and doesn't drink.
I realize I have not started the cranberries, which are lying resentfully in their packages on the table. I throw them into the rejected boiling Glühwein, which turns out to be an inspiration for preparing cranberries. I intend to do them this way forever after.
The gravy, which now tastes like red wine and boiled milk, is going to be a problem. I start shaking the contents of a bag of flour into the pot. This doesn't change the taste but it does change the texture, which goes from merely disgusting to lumpy disgusting. Mike is not taking his eyes off me, I suspect because he knows if he looks away for an instant, I am going to add mushroom soup mix. This seems like a good time to put in pepper and salt and a dash of Worchestershire sauce, which is pronounced "Wooster" Sauce in England, just like the name Featherstone-Haugh is pronounced "Fanshaw".