“What’s next?”
Pam squints at the scrawled handwriting on the paper.
“Um, stuffing. And cranberries. And asparagus. Oh, and something that looks like ‘fruit salad’ or maybe ‘food squares’. And, wow, I thought we were nearing the end of this list about ten minutes ago. What happened?”
“We stood in front of the bakery for about twenty minutes before you decided on three different types of pie,” Jim says. “And I think you added two more things while I wasn’t looking.”
“Are you sure?” Pam frowns, and glances at the list again.
“I’m pretty sure it’s not our job to cook all of Thanksgiving dinner for my family,” he says. “I think my mom’s got it covered. At least, she has for the past 28 years. And, if I recall, she told us to bring one dish. One. If that.”
He eyes the shopping cart, already dangerously full of groceries.
“We’re making two feasts here, Beesly. What are your nefarious plans? Are you expecting Kevin to crash Thanksgiving? Because my mom only has place settings for like, twenty.”
“Twenty?” Pam repeats, alarmed. “How many people are coming?”
“Well, you, me, my parents, my older brother and his family – that’s eight – my kid sister and her family – that’s three – my aunt and uncle from New Hampshire – two more there – and my four cousins. Oh, and my grandmother.”
Pam blanches a little as Jim guides the cart past a large display of canned fruit.
“I could have sworn it was a much smaller number last week,” she says, taking a can of pears and dropping it in the cart.
“Pam, seriously. You have nothing to worry about. The Halpert clan may be large, but we’re good people, easy to please,” he says, giving her his best reassuring smile. “Let’s just focus on one thing and go with that. What about the casserole you mentioned last week? Something about a specialty?”
“I always make casserole,” she says as they turn the corner into the frozen food section. “I want to try something else. I just don’t know what, I guess.”
She picks up a carton of Neapolitan ice cream and holds it up for him.
“Does John like Neapolitan?”
“Depends on what you mean by ‘like’. Personally, I think he’s always remained pretty ambiguous on the matter.”
Pam rolls her eyes, and puts down the carton.
“What kind of ice cream should we get, then?”
Jim shrugs. “Whatever you want,” he says. “I think my mom’s got a pretty decent supply of vanilla in the freezer.”
“Vanilla it is,” she says cheerfully, dropping a container of Breyer’s into the cart.
"Pam, you really don't have to - uh, okay."
"Spice aisle," Pam says, directing the cart. They walk for a while and stop about halfway down when she notices Jim's undeniably fatigued expression.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “It’s not like I’m new to this or anything, I think it’s just…“
She’s quiet for a minute, looking at the assortment of spices in front of her.
“Roy and I had this arrangement,” she says, picking up a small container of cinnamon nutmeg, turning it over. “We’d do Thanksgiving at the Andersons, Christmas at the Beeslys. Ever since high school. And I always made casserole. And last year, I drove to my parents’ house for the first time in god knows how long, and wanted to try something different. And I ended up making this terrible Jell-O dessert casserole…thing. And the thing is, I’m a really good cook. But maybe not with casserole. Or dessert.”
Pam replaces the nutmeg on the shelf and looks at him. He’s looking back at her, eyes narrowed, carefully searching her face. It’s the first time she’s brought up her past relationship since Roy was fired in April.
“I guess, no matter how much you reassure me, or tell me I'm overthinking it, I can't help but be nervous about meeting your family."
"Oh, Pam."
“Hear me out," she says. "I’ve never met them. I’ve known you for, what? Five years and I’ve kind of loved you for that long and I’ve never met them? And I can’t imagine what they think of me, especially after, well, everything, and –“
"Pam. Listen. My parents? Are going to love you. And not just because you’re planning on feeding a third world country, or that I’ve talked you up for the better part of five years. They’re going to love you because I do. A lot.”
She blushes at this, and he walks toward her, pulling her into a hug.
“And that's good enough for them,” he says, pulling back to drop a kiss on her forehead. “Even when I tell them that I suspect that my girlfriend is planning on building a bomb shelter to survive whatever impending nuclear holocaust she thinks is upon us.”
“Are you saying I should cut down the rations?” Pam asks, looking immensely relieved.
“Only by a fourth.”
They break apart, and she smiles at him.
“Will do.”
“Now, I don’t know about you, Beesly, but I’m really loving it if we could make it out of here with like, one pie and maybe some gravy before next Thanksgiving? Or before this cart keels over from exhaustion. Either one. Up to you.”
“Oh, I think we can make do with a pie, some gravy, and some ice cream,” Pam says, as they make their way to the checkout line. “Not enough to survive a nuclear fallout, but I think we’ll manage.”
Story Notes:
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
Chapter End Notes:
Thanks for reading! Feedback is as welcomed as an obnoxiously-sized turkey. Happy Thanksgiving!
GirlFriday is the author of 1 other stories.
This story is a favorite of 5 members. Members who liked Ingredients and Indecision also liked 1683 other stories.
