«not edited»
eccedentesiast (n) someone who only pretends to smile
[origin : neologism from combining latin roots]
hours later
thursday, november twenty third
thanksgiving morning, more like afternoon
I wake up fresh with a wide smile on my face. Today was Thanksgiving and dad and I were about to cook so much food to last us forever. It was our yearly ritual, to cook so much and eat amongst ourselves. I'd make lasagna and stuffed shells while dad would prepare stew beef and beans and rice. Along with that, we'd make chicken curry, rainbow cake, and I'd make my special parfaits. Hunter was coming and I don't know if dad invited anyone, so I'll dress formal just in case. I'll settle for something elegant and classy, but simplistic. My mind went wild with thoughts of what I'm going to need for all my dishes and what I was going to wear as I got up and made my bed, drawing open the curtains. And given that the house was like fricken 110°, I was definitely going a little more open with my outfit. I changed out of my pajamas into a pair of Nike shorts and a Prince and Fox t-shirt. I walked into my en suite to wash my face and brush my teeth. Once I was done, I grabbed my phone from the charging dock and headed downstairs, ready to spend the day listening to music and cooking with my dad.
§
"Where the hell is the damn ricotta?" I yell, my head buried in the fridge. Instead of answering, he says, "I don't like this song!" I pull my head out of the fridge immediately and turn to glare at my father.
"Excuse me?"
"I don't like this song," he said, looking up from the pot he was stirring and staring at me blankly.
"What's wrong with it," I ask just as blankly.
"It's too slow and quiet," he rolled his eyes.
"Well, now that I have your thoughts on indie and alternative music, I'm not changing it," I reply, shrugging and turning to look back in the fridge. What was I looking for again? Oh yes, ricotta for the lasagna, don't tell me we have none. I look for five more minutes, five whole minutes, to find the stupid container. In the very back of the damn drawer!
———
Three hours later and my father and I had foil pan after foil pan sitting on the counter, there was baked chicken, beans and rice, ceviche, stew beef, chicken curry, lasagna, Alfredo pasta with shrimp, and for dessert, we already made — well I made — summer berry parfaits with vanilla bean ricotta and toasted almonds, rainbow cookies, chocolate mousse, rasmali, pumpkin pie, and rosé moscato cheesecake.
My dad also made some Russian dishes: pelmeni, borscht, pirozhki, and honey cakes. It was 3:30 now — and to think my dad's been cooking since nine and I since twelve thirty — and I know Hunter was coming around six. I need to go take a damn long shower and wash my hair like fifty times. But I still had to make the stuffed shells and the pastel de tres leches. Shit.
"Adri, how about you go take a shower and then come back and make the shells and cake while I finish up?" Dad suggested.
"Okay, sure," I said as I dried the last dish and put it away. I was gonna need the time for myself.
"Oh, and dress fancy, I have someone coming over," he yelled as I was already halfway up the stairs. Damnit, my mind yelled and I almost laughed and how I expected this to happen.
«««»»»
One hour. I took one whole hour in the shower and now I was fearing my hair would smell of food again while preparing the shells and cake. Wonderful.
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