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“You’re wrong there, missy.” I continue to wash my hands as she doesn’t let up while she keeps chopping celery.
“Is there an underground society for the preservation of the culinary benefits of the chestnut? Do you have fond memories of school lunches full of chestnut butter and jelly sandwiches? And oh, how everyone goes crazy for chestnut-chip pancakes or the traditional chestnut spiced latte from Starbucks.”
I say, “They do, in fact, have a chestnut praline latte.”
“And I’m guessing they’ve sold exactly one of them in Philadelphia. To their resident chestnut enthusiast.”
“Ya done?” I loom over her.
“Almost. I remember those mornings when I’d stay home sick from school and my mom would make the traditional chestnut noodle soup to help me feel better.”
I surge toward her and take the knife from her hands. Then I tickle the hell out of her.
She squeals, “Stop it! Stop.” I do, on her command.
She turns around in my arms and kisses me completely. I pull her closer. I need her closer. For her, I’ll forgo chestnuts. We stay lip-locked for a good couple of minutes. I swallow her soft moans and increase the intensity of the kiss. It’s hot, and here I am, hard again.
“When?” I state, simply pulling the hair off her face.
“When what? Will the chestnuts be delivered from my imaginary chestnut guy?”
“When will I tire of kissing you?”
She smiles, and my heart does that overbeating thing. “Hopefully not soon.”
I say, “I don’t see it being soon at all. I had my hands in the carcass of a large bird, and I couldn’t stop staring at your lips.” She kisses me again, then pushes me back toward the bird. “But you’re making my dad roll over in his grave.” I raise my finger to her.
“I loved your dad very much, but not enough to go out on Christmas Day in search of chestnuts, or even eat one, to be honest.” She turns back to her non-dressing dressing prep.
“I will attempt to get over this. But promise me this is a onetime occurrence. That every turkey we make together in the future will have chestnuts in the dressing.”
I pull a box from my pocket.
“I know we’re exchanging these later, but I can’t wait.”
She looks over at me, and again, breath stolen. The crisp winter light from the kitchen window catches the gold in her hair and the promise in her eyes.
“I have all the gifts I need; you know?” she says.
The last minute nature of this gift made it expensive, not the actual gift, but I won’t tell her that.
She takes the box and rolls her eyes at me. She lifts the lid and pulls out a necklace with a small bar pendant.
She reads it aloud, “January 1, 2000, midnight.” She looks at me. I pull her to me and kiss her slowly.
She says with fake enthusiasm, “I love it!” Then shakes her head. “I don’t get it.”
I laugh. “Our first kiss.” Her eyes get wide, then she remembers when we were thirteen and fourteen. I see it dawn on her face, then I flip it over. She reads again.
“December 22, 2022, 6:27 p.m.”
Her eyes fill again, and I love making that happen if it means she’s happy.
She whispers as she runs her fingers over the numbers, “Our second first kiss.” I nod, and she throws her arms around me and snuggles into my chest. And that’s the best Christmas present I’ve ever received.
“I promise to make two stuffings in the future. One normal and one fucked-up chestnut pilgrim historical artisan heritage dressing with oysters stuck up its ass that no one will eat except you. I promise from now on you get your own dressing.”
I nod and and go back to work prepping the bird. She continues to chop celery, and I let myself dream of future turkeys.
