Everyone has a Thanksgiving story

It was our first Thanksgiving in our first house, so of course Rob and I wanted to step up and be the adults we hoped we were. So we invited my parents, my grandma, and a dear family friend to join us for The Holiday Meal we were mostly confident we could prepare.

Everything was going along just peachy at first, but the turkey…well, predictably, it was taking just a tad too long. I was struggling to keep everything else warm while Rob was doing a great job keeping our company distracted - if not entertained - downstairs. In a fit of impatience, I decided to spin the temperature knob on the oven up really high, assuming that would cook the bird faster. This was eerily similar to my logic in college when cooking on a gas stove for the first time. My assumption: more flame = faster cooking. I cluelessly ate blackened quesadillas for three years.

Upon spinning the knob, I heard a click. I suddenly noticed the oven’s self-cleaning latch had moved. It was now in the Lock position. I tried to switch it back, but my hasty spinning had put the oven into automatic self-cleaning mode and there was no turning back. My oven was determined to scorch itself clean. I stood there staring in the window at our dinner being held hostage by the oven. I began having visions of the turkey catching on fire, burning down the house, and ruining, just ruining, my carefully planned meal.

Calmly, so impressively calmly, I wandered downstairs to where Rob and our guests were chatting. I had to walk past them to get to the garage. As I headed to the garage door, I assured them everything was coming along just fine. When I returned carrying a screwdriver, I very nonchalantly asked, “Rob could you please come upstairs with me for a minute?” My family exchanged looks of amused confusion as Rob tried to keep up with me and the screwdriver as we ran back to the kitchen. I can’t recall exactly how I thought the screwdriver was going to help. I might have been thinking it would help pry the latch out of Lock, or perhaps I was planning to dismantle the oven door. In retrospect, a hammer would have been a more logical choice.

In whispered panic, I explained the hostage situation to Rob. He poked around the oven a little, being mostly careful not to make too many banging noises. Within just a few eternal minutes, the door opened. I’m not sure what exactly Rob did to liberate our dinner, but it didn’t involve the screwdriver.

With his work done, Rob returned downstairs. With a laugh in his voice, I heard him assure our guests that everything really was just fine...now. And screwdriver, what screwdriver?