“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.
Later that night, after Vivien had gone home and Hudson had fallen asleep, I sat at our kitchen table with a calculator, trying to figure out the logistics. The turkey alone would need to go in the oven at 6:00 a.m. to be ready by 2:00 p.m., but I’d need the oven space for other dishes. The math didn’t work. The timing was impossible.
Na
USA