Our Christmas Cookbook - 14. Don't Forget the Cranberry Sauce

Don’t Forget the Cranberry Sauce

By Cole Matthews

“We need to stop at the store on the way to my mom’s,” Taran said. He was pulling gifts from under the Christmas tree and stacking them in a cardboard carrier. “Boy, you bought a lot of shit.”

“Why?” I asked sharply, feeling annoyed at his jab. “We’re already late.”

“My mom called and needed us to pick up a couple of things,” he answered, then hollered, “Goddamn it. I’m bleeding!”

“What happened?” I said, walking across the room towards him. “Are you okay?”

“No! I’m not okay. You and your fucking ribbons on the presents pulled an ornament off the tree and broke it. I cut myself.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, stopping short. Holidays were stressful enough without aggravating Taran even more. “I’ll get the rest of them.”

“No,” he growled. “I’ve got it.” He stood up, holding his hand. Rivulets of blood trickled down his middle finger.

“I’ll get the first aid kit,” I said.

“No, we don’t have time. Get these presents out to the car while I grab a Band-aid.”

I saw my man’s countenance was stormy, threatening to spill into full-blown fury. Sometimes I was concerned about his temper. It sparked hot and scary. I quickly skipped over to grab the box by its handles.

He snarled at me and disappeared through a doorway towards our bedroom and bathroom.

Waiting for the down elevator, I hoped my man’s mood softened before we got to his mom’s. They had a strained relationship at best. My experience with them was limited, but it always seemed a little off. She had very high expectations of him. He thought she was too pushy, calling her “The Harpy” behind her back. Luckily Taran’s brother and his wife and kids would be there too.

The elevator dinged, but the door didn’t open. I set the box down and looked around the hallway. Our building was so lovely at Christmas. The third-floor hallway had a small, ceramic, lighted Christmas tree on a table under the window at the end. A gentle glow from the lamp was festive in the growing gloom of the evening. The night sky seemed to pull the light outwards. The effect was lovely, seeming to stretch the light like taffy.

“Still waiting?” Taran asked, this time sounding more subdued. I looked at him; his full length caramel colored overcoat set off the golden gleam of his hair. My boyfriend was stunningly handsome, rugged in an out-doorsy way. When he smiled, which was rare, his sparkling white teeth welcomed you. His Mediterranean blue eyes captured you as did his manly jutting chin.

“Probably lots of people coming and going tonight,” I said, lightly brushing the lapel of his soft camel-hair coat. “You look great.”

“You do too,” he answered, looking down. I hated that he rarely looked at me when he complimented me. It felt insincere, like he was repeating back my praise.

The door opened, and I bent to grab the large box. Lurching forward, I stepped in and Taran followed closely, one large bag in each hand. One contained all the cookies he’d baked in the past couple of days. The other sack had the scalloped corn I was bringing for the Christmas Eve feast.

We rode down in a comfortable silence.

Then we stepped out into the lobby.

Our building is small. The staff is spare with only a maintenance man and a woman caretaker. Charisse was gone for the holidays, but Jerome was there mopping the tile floor. Puddles of melted snow and ice were all over the place. He was dutifully trying to clean the pools of dirty water, but not quickly enough. I watched as the scene unfolded right before my eyes.

Taran had turned and was backing out of the elevator, telling me about what his mom had requested we pick up. His face was animated, and his eyes sparked with mirth as he stepped backwards. I tried to say something, but the words caught in my throat as he took another step, barely missing a slushy pile of melting snow.

“Taran!” I shouted, as he then started to slip. He quickly leaned forward, trying to balance on his other foot, but then his back foot slid into the slimy puddle.

“Holy fuck!” he yelled as his arms flailed. The bag with the corn hotdish swung backwards, pulling him off his front foot. His other leg flew up. For a moment, it was like my boyfriend was suspended in the air, his arms reaching out, the two bags windmilling frantically. Both of his legs were airborne.

He fell onto the only thing that could have arrested his fall -- the Christmas cookies.

The containers of gingerbread men, spritz, gaily decorated sugar cookies, rich chocolate and peanut butter squares, and big bag of homemade caramel corn acted as a cushion, spreading underneath Taran and softening his fall.

He lay there, staring up at the ceiling, looking shocked and stunned.

“Are you okay?” I choked out. That’s when I saw Jerome looking at us. He had a look of horror pasted on his face. His mouth was agape as he stood with his mop in hand, unmoving.

“Goddamnit!” Taran grunted, trying to lift his head. “Why is the floor so wet?”

“It’s snowing out,” I answered without thinking, “Can you get up?” I asked, setting down the box with the presents.

Taran sat up suddenly and looked around him. His face sank as he looked at the smashed containers of cookies and candy scattered and smashed around him. I noticed my casserole, wrapped thickly in a towel to keep it warm, looked undamaged even freed from its bag.

“Who mops a floor on Christmas eve?” Taran asked loudly, and rudely, now glaring at Jerome.

“I’m sorry—”

“Don’t fucking touch me,” Taran bellowed, as he dusted cookie crumbs from his wool slacks. “Get that shit out to the car. Now!”

I snatched up the box, and made my way around him, mouthing my apology to Jerome. He shook his head, his dismay radiating across the room.

Once I got to the car, I looked anxiously back at the front door of the building. I hoped Taran wouldn’t be too hard on poor Jerome. He was a retiree on a small pension living largely off Social Security. Getting him fired, on Christmas, to make it worse, was my biggest fear.

My phone buzzed and I checked the messages.

There was a text from Taran’s mother.

“Where are you? The bird will be done in half an hour. Don’t forget the cranberry sauce.” I looked up when I heard the snick of a door opening.

“Okay, we’ll pick up cookies on the way,” my boyfriend said, sliding quickly into the driver’s side after placing my casserole in the back seat. “I took care of Jerome, so that’s over.”

“What?” I asked, dumbfounded, appalled at him.

He started the car and began to back out of the parking spot. “Now what stores are still going to be open?” he asked, distracted.

“Taran, you didn’t--?”

“Jerome’s settled. I also spoke with Charisse so it’s taken care of, okay?” His tone had that warning quality that sounded so final and lethal.

I swallowed hard and looked over at him. His face was calm and determined. I began thinking about how this isn’t the man I thought he was.

“Your mother sent me a message,” I said. My words sounded wooden in the cold December air. “She reminded us to pick up cranberry sauce.”

“That’s right,” Taran said. “I’ll grab a can when we get more treats. I can’t believe the cookies got ruined. I thought they turned out so well this year.”

Surprised, I assessed his demeanor. Instead of looking angry, my boyfriend looked disappointed. I’m not sure which was worse; knowing he got someone fired on Christmas and was annoyed, or that he didn’t care enough to be pissed about it. Either way, his casual air was shocking me to the core.

Taran was a matter-of-fact kind of guy. He wasn’t overly sentimental or emotional, which was very different than my previous relationships. Usually I picked drama queens with big theatrical expressive displays.

For example, my ex, Brent, was addicted to male on male romances. He had a fricking subscription to Amazon for unlimited love stories on his Kindle. He would weep over his stories and mope around for a day if one ended badly. Hallmark movies made him moody and laconic.

Brent thought I was cold and uncaring. I thought he was a basket-case, and so the relationship ended with a huge fight in the parking lot of the Gay 90s with shoes and nasty names flying freely.

When I met Taran, I thought dating an adult might be a refreshing change. He was an attorney with a mid-sized firm, but his star was rising. We got along great, the sex was amazing, and our daily interactions worked perfectly, but then there is this. What kind of cold bastard gets a sixty-some year-old widower fired on Christmas!

“How about Weingartens? They have a great bakery,” Taran asked. He sounded almost merry.

I slouched in my seat and sulked a little. Maybe moving in with him had been a huge mistake. “Sure,” I answered softly.

As we traveled to his parents’ neighborhood grocery store, I remembered another episode where my boyfriend had acted so meanly. Once again, it was in connection with his family.

We’d met at a lovely old-fashioned supper club in Edina not far from his parents’ house. This was a large, dated establishment but it had all the amenities. There were real linen towels in the bathroom. The menu didn’t have any prices. The gold leaf on the light fixtures looked like the real thing and not paint.

There was even a coat check at the entrance. Taran and I left our coats with the woman, no more a girl, behind the counter and got our tickets.

We proceeded to have a very nice dinner. His father was gracious. His mother was on her best behavior until the end of the meal. That’s when the fireworks began.

Gloria was pressing Taran to consider moving to a larger, more prestigious law firm. Taran was happy where he was. Taran’s father was trying to play peacemaker, but his mother wouldn’t stop.

Taran was furious at his mother. They exchanged some heated words until Taran announced we were leaving.

He stomped out of the dining room with me following behind like an afterthought. We got to the coat check and handed the girl our tickets. She disappeared into the coat closet for a minute.

Taran was obviously still pissed at his mother, but I tried calming him down.

Finally, the coat check girl returned, but only had one coat. Mine. The other coat was missing.

The girl, Cindy’s face was ashen and apologized profusely.

Taran asked to see the manager.

I didn’t know what to do. Taran was so angry. The girl was so scared.

I left the building and sat in the car, waiting for him.

The next time we met his parents at the place, I asked about Cindy.

She didn’t work there any longer.

“Goddammit,” Taran bellowed, banging on the steering wheel. I looked up and Weingarten’s was closed, the lights were turned off and a sign hung in the window. Closed for Christmas.

“Maybe a gas station?” I asked meekly.

“Gas station cookies, are you kidding me?” Taran thundered. Now I knew how Cindy felt, and Jerome, and any number of his employees at his job. The guy was frightening.

I shrank down even more. How could I love him?

We drove towards his parents’ house, and as we turned onto the main street right before their neighborhood, a Walgreens beckoned to us. It was lit up, the windows gleaming their welcome. At the entrance, a bell ringer dressed in a Santa suit was standing in front of a red kettle.

“There we go,” Taran said, pulling into the parking lot. “This will have to do.”

He parked, jumped out of the driver’s seat, and trotted to the front door of the store. As he passed the bell ringer, joyfully greeting him, I saw my boyfriend give him the finger. The finger!

My boyfriend, Taran, gave the man, collecting donations for the homeless, his middle finger in a ‘fuck you’ gesture.

I was now livid. I couldn’t believe his behavior this evening.

I had to do something. I couldn’t let Taran get away with being such a bastard.

Pulling out my phone, I found the number for Charisse. At least I could get Jerome his job back. It rang and rang, and I ended the call without leaving a message.

Without thinking, I hit the number for Jerome. As the phone rang, I thought about how this was probably the end. I couldn’t live with a man so callous as to get a person fired on Christmas and give the finger to a man wearing a Santa suit.

Jerome answered on the third ring.

“Jerome, this is Cole,” I said hurriedly. “I know you probably don’t want to hear from me just now, but—”

“Thank you so much for your generosity,” Jerome interrupted. “Two hundred dollars is such a kind gesture.”

I must have heard something wrong. “I’m sorry, Jerome. What did you say?”

“Thanks for the tip. Oh, and tell Taran I got the mess all cleaned up as well. Cleaning the lobby is part of my job, so he didn’t need to pay me for it. I should have put out the signs about the wet floor.”

“Taran gave you money?” I asked stupidly.

“Yeah. Your name is on the card as well. He slipped me a fifty for cleaning up the smashed cookies.”

I looked up, and over at the Santa still smiling and ringing his bell.

“You’re welcome,” I said, and watched as Taran exited the building. He looked around quickly, and then slipped something into the kettle. Santa reacted with a bow and a toothy grin. Taran shook his head and jogged over to me in the car.

“Merry Christmas,” I said into the phone before I hit end.

Taran put a bag in the back seat, and turned to me. “Who were you talking to?”

“Jerome,” I said automatically.

“Yeah. Why did you call him?” I was so confused, so I had to ask.

“Did you just give money to the bell ringer?” I asked, turning towards him.

“Yeah, of course. It’s a very good cause. Besides, the guy is an old buddy of mine from college. Why?” Taran asked, looking confused.

“Nevermind,” I said. Thinking about my earlier ruminations, I ventured a question. “Taran, did you get that coat check girl fired?”

“Coat check girl?” he asked, turning on the engine. “I don’t know what … oh, you mean Cindy?”

“That’s her name,” I said, feeling strangely triumphant. “She worked at Flannigan’s Supper Club.”

“Oh, you mean Cindy, Cindy. She works at the firm. We needed a paralegal to help with docketing, and she had just finished college with a legal studies degree.” Taran paused. “She quit the restaurant when she started at the office.”

I smiled to myself. I could feel his attention focused on me. He opened his mouth, closed it, and then finally spoke.

“Did you think I got her fired?”

“No. Not really,” I lied. “You’re a good guy, I know that.”

“I try,” Taran said. “I remembered the cranberry sauce so my mom will be happy.”

Yes, it would be a very merry Christmas now.

Cole’s Scalloped Corn Casserole (Served at every holiday meal in our family)

1 can creamed corn

1 can corn or two ears fresh corn cut from the cob

1 egg

½ cup milk or half and half

1 sleeve of saltines or butter crackers crushed

1 tsp granulated garlic

Black pepper to taste

½ stick of butter

Butter a medium casserole dish liberally. Blend all ingredients together reserving the rest of the butter and half of the sleeve of crackers. Place the mixture in the casserole dish and sprinkle the rest of the crackers over the top. Dot the top with the rest of the butter.

Bake in a 350 degrees Fahrenheit oven for 30 to 45 minutes until top is golden brown and the corn mixture is set.