“What,” Mr. Oliver asks me late one Sunday afternoon, “are we having for Thanksgiving dinner this year?”

I look at him witheringly. “What do you mean, what are we having? Turkey, of course. What else would we have?”

“I meant,” he says with a trace of impatience, “what are we having, besides turkey? We can’t only have a turkey. Shall we have a ham? Goose? Perhaps a nice crown rib roast-?

“What else?” I inquire, incensed. “Do you mean to say that thrusting my arm halfway up a turkey’s arse at five o’clock in the morning, stuffing its innermost cavities with breadcrumbs and sage, and wrestling the slippery, 20-pound bastard into a roasting pan, then basting it intermittently with melted butter and pan juices for five hours, is NOT ENOUGH?”

“I’m not saying that,” he says quickly, “not at all. But… what about sides?”

“Sides? Are we meant to take sides? I’m Team Turkey, then.”

“No. We need to make side dishes, Katie. Mashed potatoes, creamed peas, pearl onions-”

“And who,” I inquire calmly, “is this royal ‘we’ you refer to?”

He blinks. “Well… you, of course.”

“Of course.” I fling the magazine I’ve just been reading aside and glare at him. “Because I’m meant to do everything, aren’t I? Clean the house, do the grocery shop, work a full-time job, then rush home to baste and bake and boil and braise-”

“I’m more than willing to help.”

Every year Mr. Oliver says this, knowing full well that every year, I tell him not to bother. And I tell him not to bother because he never does things quite the way I’d like. In other words – he bollockses everything up. If I ask him to unload the dishwasher, he puts the pots and pans away in the plates cupboard, and he puts the plates… Well, God knows where he puts the plates. If I ask him to buy a stalk of celery for the stuffing, he buys hearts of celery at twice the cost, or comes home with a container of celery salt.

So I stopped asking him to help.

I’m convinced this is a carefully orchestrated plan on his part, to avoid all responsibility come Thanksgiving Day. But this year, I decide, things are going to be different.

This year, Mr. Oliver is getting the bird.

“Darling,” I say expansively, “I have an idea. Why don’t you make the turkey?”

“What?” He looks at me as if I’ve just turned into a Dalek. “But, Katie – I’ve never made a turkey before.”

“Then it’s time you learned.” I offer – quite generously, I think – to help him select and prepare the perfect bird.

But, “No,” he says, affronted. “I’ll manage on my own. After all, how hard can it be?”

♥♥♥

The big day arrives.  Mr. Oliver’s turkey plans have thus far been shrouded in secrecy, and although I expect him to be nervous and all a-dither, he’s remarkably calm on Thanksgiving morning.

“Have you put the turkey in the oven yet?” I inquire. “You don’t want to leave it too late.”

“I’ve got it under control,” he says smugly. “Plenty of time.”

As I begin to peel potatoes and chop celery, he disappears outside. What, I wonder uneasily, is he doing out there? Hunting a turkey In the back yard? Has he even bought a turkey? I haven’t seen one, neatly wrapped and thawing in the fridge. I decide to go outside and investigate.

Before I go, my son and daughter-in-law and their kids arrive. There’s lots of hugging and cheek-kissing and ‘how-have-you-beens’ when Mark, my oldest son, stops and frowns. “Where’s dad?” he asks. “And why doesn’t the house smell of roasting turkey?”

I explain that Mr. Oliver is handling the turkey honors this year. We all troop outside to see what, exactly, our poultry chef is up to. Imagine my surprise to see my husband standing over a squat, bullet-shaped contraption, looking excessively pleased with himself.

“So you did it, dad!” Mark exclaims, grinning. He and his father exchange a high five.

“Did what?” I ask apprehensively as I turn to Mr. Oliver. “What did you do? Where is our turkey?”

“Oh ye of little faith,” he says, and lifts the lid of the contraption. Steam and a mouth-watering fragrance escapes. “Here it is – one gloriously browned, deep-fried turkey.”

Mark helps him clamp the bird – a huge, and indeed, a very delicious looking turkey – and together, they lift it from the deep fryer.

♥♥♥

“The best turkey ever,” we all agree as we carve more slices of moist, mouth-watering bird and deposit it on our plates.

“Well, Katie?” Mr Oliver inquires, one brow raised. “Did I bollocks it up?”

I lean over to kiss him.  “No, you most certainly did not. I’m very proud of you, darling.”

He beams.

“And since you did such a stellar job,” I add, “I think you should be in charge of the turkey… every year.”

And so there’ll now be one less thing for me to bother with at Thanksgiving. I’ll no longer have to wrestle with a slippery bird at five o’clock in the morning…

…and Mr. Oliver will get to bask in all his newfound, deep-fried glory. It’s a win-win.

As I turn away to pour myself a glass of wine, I hear Mr. Oliver say to Mark, “What a pain in the arse, frying that turkey! Too much bloody work. Next year, we’re all going vegan.”

I stop and turn back around. “What did you just say?” I demand.

“Nothing, Katie,” Mr. Oliver assures me.

I glare at him and walk away, but not before I see my son and his father snicker and exchange a high five.

Bastards.