Thankful Thomas's Arc

Chapter 1 of 3

Thankful Thomas wanted one thing this Thanksgiving: enough food and warmth to fill every seat at his table. He had invited more people than his cottage could hold. Now he stood in his tiny kitchen and saw the problem clearly. His single oven held the turkey. Nothing else fit. The turkey took the whole rack. It was a big bird, brown and heavy, with a wide fan of tail feathers he had admired at the farm. Around it, pots waited on the counter with no place to go. Potatoes. Stuffing. Two pies. A pan of squash. He counted eight dishes and had heat for one. Thomas rubbed the gray stubble on his jaw. He was tall, and the low ceiling of his kitchen made him stoop. He did the math out loud. "If the turkey cooks four hours, the rest goes cold. Or it never cooks at all." Half the meal would fail. He pictured his guests holding empty plates while he apologized. That thought sat like a stone in his chest. He had promised them a full spread. He had promised them plenty. He stepped onto the porch to think. The cold air cleared his head. His gaze dropped to the far end of the yard, where an old brick oven stood. He had built it two summers ago and used it once. Red bricks curved into a rounded chamber. A short chimney topped it. Dust and dead leaves filled the cold mouth. Thomas walked over and brushed the leaves away. The bricks were solid. The chamber was deep. It could hold two pans at once, maybe three. He grinned for the first time all morning. He gathered dry wood and lit a fire inside the chamber. Smoke rose from the little chimney. He fed the flames until the bricks grew hot enough to sting his palm. Then he carried out the pies and slid them in. He hurried back for the squash and the stuffing. Soon both ovens ran at once. The turkey roasted inside. The pies and sides baked in the brick heat outside. The smell of woodsmoke and browning crust filled the yard. Thomas moved between the two, checking, turning, wiping his hands on his apron. For the first time, every dish had a place to cook. By afternoon the food was done. Golden pies. Soft squash. Stuffing with a crisp top. The turkey rested on the counter. Thomas lined the dishes up and counted again. Eight. All of them ready. All of them hot. Then he looked back at his cottage and felt the stone return. The food was solved. The space was not. He had a feast for a crowd and a kitchen that could seat six. His guests would arrive in three hours, and there was nowhere near enough room to sit them all down.