Monday, November 22, 2010

A Hexy Thanksgiving

“I don’t know if three turkeys will be enough,” Blair said, surveying the kitchen counters covered with roasting pans, mixing bowls, and various pots and pans on the stove. “Trust me, Jake eats a lot. There are all you can eat buffets that won’t let us come back.”

“And you demolishing the desert table doesn’t have something to do with that? The turkeys are twenty-six pounds apiece. We’ll be fine.” Stasi covered the sweet potatoes with marshmallows and popped them into the hot oven so they could brown. She paused long enough to sneak a treat to Bogie who barked his thanks and floated toward his soft and comfy bed.

“You did use cream and real butter in the mashed potatoes, didn’t you?” Irma wandered in with Phinneas, her spectral beau, in tow. “It’s what gives them the proper taste.” She heaved a deep sigh. “I miss eating.” She glared at Jazz. “You could let me change my wardrobe, but not allow me to eat? Get working on that spell, missy.”

“Yeah, like that’ll happen,” Jazz muttered.

“It’s a good thing we all have metabolisms that burn up all the extra calories and cholesterol.” Blair set the rolls on a cookie sheet.

“I brought the pies,” Maggie walked into the kitchen. She laughed her friends’ expressions of horror. “From my favorite bakery,” she assured them. It was a known fact the blonde witch’s culinary skills were on the same level as Jazz’s … none. “Four pumpkin, two mince, and one pecan. And …” She opened a pink bakery box to reveal five extra large custard filled éclairs topped with decadent chocolate frosting. For later, she mouthed.

“Ah, I see a lovely corner for moi.” Maggie’s diamond encrusted black widow spider tattoo skittered off the witch’s shoulder and headed up the wall. She pulled a tiny netbook out of a hidden pocket and began her web surfing.

“Where’re the guys?” Maggie asked, perching on the counter.

“Where else? It’s Thanksgiving Day so that means football,” Stasi said. “If we’re lucky we’ll be able to drag them away from the TV long enough to eat.”

“All you have to do is try it,” Jazz coaxed, leading Nick into the kitchen. “It’s not that bad.”

“How would you know? Have you tasted it?” The tall vampire followed her with a wary look on his face. “Plus, did you have to drag me away now? I’ve got money riding on this game.”

“Jazz, you’re not!” Blair and Stasi protested, aware what their witchy friend had in mind.

“It’s a great way for Nick to feel like he’s a part of the dinner,” Jazz argued.

“A glass of wine is just fine with me.” He started to edge his way out of the estrogen-filled room, but his witch’s firm hold on his wrist wouldn’t allow it, thanks to magick increasing her strength. No way she was letting him escape now. She used her other hand to pull a container out of the refrigerator.

“I’ve read fiction books where they come up with special blends. So why not this?” She dumped the contents in the blender and fired it up. She poured a little bit of the thick mixture into a glass and offered it to Nick who reared back as if she held a ball of fire.

“That smells terrible! What’s in it?”

Jazz looked into the glass but seemed to hold her breath. “Pureed turkey and cow’s blood.”

“That was what you put in our refrigerator?” Stasi cried. “Jazz!”

Blair and Maggie gagged at the idea.

“It’s not like I put bits of an entire dinner in there.” She held the glass toward Nick who kept backing away with his hands up. “Although I did think of some potatoes and green bean casserole.”

“Wine only,” he stated.

“Nikolai Gregorivich I made this for you and you will drink it!” She glared at him.

That was when Nick disappeared in the wink of an eye.

“I cooked for you!” Jazz shouted into thin air. She picked up the blender and headed for the sink.

“Wait a minute.” Horace grabbed it out of her hands and downed the contents. A loud belch followed. ‘Eh, I’ve had better.”

Which goes to show a gargoyle will eat anything if it’s Thanksgiving.


  1. LOL! I have to agree with Nick. I wouldn't have touched that with the proverbial ten foot pole. *g*

  2. And proves that Horace has no taste buds.

    Happy Thanksgiving!