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“What should I cook for Christmas?”
Henry stared at her, something between surprise and fear lingering in his eyes.
“Why do you need to cook?”
“It's our first Christmas just us.”
“That's why one of us needs to cook. Why do you want it to be you?”
It was a well established fact that Elizabeth's cooking was not in contention for a Michelin star. Neither felt strongly about this as long as she wasn't cooking. And if she was then the emotion was an insidious fear, growing the longer it remained in the oven.
“You need to call your parents and I don't want you to be distracted by the food.”
Translation: I don't want your parents to know I'm not cooking because they might think I'm morally deficient.
Though a thought was furiously hammering at the back of his mind, yelling “competitiveness kills”, he resisted. If she wanted to, what could really go so wrong?
“Okay,” he paused, reassuring himself that all would be well, “a chicken? It will be cheaper than turkey this time of year. Write me a list and I'll grab it.”
***
“Henry McCord, are you ready for a veritable feast? We're about to Christmas harder than anybody has ever previously Christmas-ed.”
The array of utensils certainly makes it appear that way. He can't decide if it's the beginnings of a torture chamber or an ethically dubious science lab. It looks like she's gearing up to challenge Herod.
“I can see that. What- Why-” He pauses, “How are you going to out-Christmas everyone?”
“I'm going to cook amazing food.”
“So you're hoping for another Christmas miracle?”
The look she's giving him is certainly a warning shot and he's becoming pretty good at listening to those.
“Or,” walk it back, McCord, just walk it back, “it's going to be absolutely delightful and, might I add, you look radiant today.”
He's moments away from offering to help when the defrosting chicken seems to reanimate for a moment to jump off the countertop. The subsequent crash is, well, he's not sure how loudly he'd imagined a falling chicken to hit the floor but it was certainly quieter than whatever that was.
The look she's giving it is quizzical but she picks up and carries on - all the bacteria would be killed by the oven anyway. The recucitation of a featherless biped wasn't on his bingo card of Christmas miracles but with Elizabeth, especially her cooking, he's learnt to expect the unexpected.
***
Elizabeth is perhaps more surprised by the plume of black smoke emanating from the oven than she has a right to be, given past experience.
Henry, sticking to his previously established philosophy, was not.
The christmas miracle was not a dinner which remained edible but that some friends nearby had mysteriously agreed, at the drop of a hat, to take in the victims of Elizabeth's cooking and still have leftovers.
It looked a little less miraculous when you considered it had been a backup plan for months and Henry had provided some of the food. Then again, what she didn't know couldn't hurt her.