One year I struggled to create a Hallmark-perfect holiday season. Instead, chaos ensued.
Chicken Soup for the Soul shared the story of my goofy failure in their new release, "The Wonder of Christmas."
Holiday Perfection
The kitchen’s mustard-yellow oven
mocked me from its 1970’s built-in perch. I glared at the offensive appliance,
roughly the size of a child’s easy-bake oven. Next week our entire family would
arrive for Thanksgiving dinner in our new home. I wanted everything to be
perfect, but there was no way to fit a turkey in that tiny oven.
Who lived here
before us? Elves?
My husband Jake shuffled into the
room. “It’s midnight. What’s wrong?”
“Why did the builders put a
miniature stove in a large home?” I fumed. “I can’t make a perfect Thanksgiving
turkey in this stupid thing.”
Jake rubbed his eyes and yawned.
“Let’s replace it.”
My heart did a momentary happy
dance before reality crashed in. “We just moved. We don’t have funds for a new
one.”
Jake wrapped an arm around my
shoulders. “We’ll buy a used one.” He gestured to my nemesis. “We can rip this
out now if you want.”
At midnight, the idea made
perfect sense. We grabbed tools, removed the old built-in appliance, and
cleaned the decades of greasy dirt left behind.
The next morning we found an
online ad proclaiming, “New stove for sale. $60.”
Hopping into our pickup, we drove
over for a look. A friendly young couple met us at the door and led us around
back to large shed. The husband said, “We bought this stove back home in Iowa,
but there was already one here when we moved in last year. This one’s just been
sittin’ in the shed, so we figured to sell it.”
I swiped a layer of dust off the
appliance with my finger. Underneath it the white stove gleamed. It looked
perfect. Since sixty dollars comprised our entire remodel budget, we bought it.
The two men loaded it into the truck, and Jake and I drove home congratulating
ourselves on finding a bargain.
Once we maneuvered the stove into
the kitchen, we notice an odd smell.
“It probably just needs a good
cleaning,” I said. We scrubbed every inch we could reach, inside and out, but
the odor increased.
As the stench permeated the
entire house, Jake shared his horrible realization. “I think a dead mouse is
stuck in the insulation, but I can’t get to it without ripping the stove
apart.”
“Holiday guest expect aromas like
pine boughs or gingerbread. Our house reeks of rodent carcass. We need to do
something,” I whined.
So we ran the self-cleaning
feature repeatedly every day.
By Thanksgiving the stink had
dissipated. Mostly. I felt confident that by the time our guests arrived, the
delectable scent of perfectly roasted turkey would cover any lingering odor.
Humming, I stuffed the turkey,
slid it into the new range and inspected the side dishes. Ruby colored
cranberry sauce, potatoes waiting to be mashed, pumpkin pies from the bakery
all passed the perfection inspection.
The freshly cleaned house looked
perfect, so I dressed, put on makeup, and did my hair. I wanted to look perfect
too. Or as perfect as possible despite wrinkles and acne.
As family members arrived we
greeted them, gave the house tour, then sat together, chatting and laughing.
After a time Jake pulled me aside. “Honey, the turkey isn’t cooking.”
I hurried to the kitchen and
opened the stove door. The huge raw turkey perched sadly in the cold oven.
Agh! Had I burned out the stove with repeated
mouse cremations? I stood paralyzed, dismay tap dancing across my brain.
My eagle-eyed mom glided into the
kitchen and within seconds pointed out the problem. “Sweetheart, it will cook
faster if you turn on the oven.” She tapped the knob, firmly fixed in the “off”
position.
Panic set in. “What are we going
to do? There’s a house full of people and nothing to feed them except raw
turkey!”
Jake sauntered downstairs and
brought up large ham from the basement fridge. At my questioning look he
winked. “I wanted it on hand just in case.”
And he was perfectly right, as usual.
That Thanksgiving our family ate
ham sandwiches. And ribbed me unmercifully about not turning on the stove.
Although far from what I’d
envisioned, that Thanksgiving was perfect in its own way. While munching my
sandwich, I realized I didn’t need to strive for magazine-perfect food
presentations or a picture perfect house.
My focus didn’t need to be on
perfection, but rather gratefulness. I looked around the table and thanked God
for the people in my life.
My husband who showed me love in
unexpected ways, like ripping out a stove because it bothered me. And having
the foresight to tuck away an emergency ham.
My mother who still taught me
cooking basics--like flipping the knob to the “on” setting.
And our precious daughter and
grandson, siblings, cousins. I silently thanked God for the perfect blessing of
having family together.
We invited everyone back for
Christmas. This time, rather than trying to make everything perfect, we decided
to skip the fancy turkey dinner and offer crockpots of soup instead.
I even made sure to turn the
dials onto the “high” setting so the soup would cook in time for Christmas
dinner.
Only one thing would have made
those crockpots of soup more perfect.
If I’d remembered to plug them
in.
