REVENGE, DIAPER and SNACKS - Chapter 62: Chapter 62
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Three carts. Two kids per cart. Maya and Aliya behind us, still talking about BTS and Robux.
Jaya was chewing on a cinnamon-scented pinecone. Mylene’s twin was asleep inside a box of instant stuffing. One was wearing a rotisserie chicken hat and the other kept licking the freezer aisle door and claiming it tasted like dreams.
We got everything on her list. A list so long it could be used to suffocate a small man.
A turkey so huge we needed a forklift.
Seven pies, none of which were the same flavor.
Sweet potatoes that could kill someone if thrown.
Enough greens to make a vegan weep.
Several bottles of wine because we’re not saints.
And a table runner that read “Gobble till you Wobble” which we bought ironically but secretly loved.
At some point, a man tried to steal our cart. Mylene hissed at him like a cat and he backed off. The chaos twins threw a can of cranberry sauce at his foot just in case.
An employee tried to ask if we needed help, but once he saw Mylene lifting a frozen turkey like a kettlebell while yelling at the kids in three languages, he turned around and walked the other way.
Me? I just kept looking around thinking:
“Is this what people do for one meal? One turkey dinner? This feels like a military operation. I’ve smuggled diamonds with less effort.”
But I have to admit, despite the madness, the aisles filled with screaming toddlers, glittery pumpkin decor, and seventeen versions of gravy mix—
I felt... kind of good. Strong. Ready. Armed with carts full of carbs and vengeance.
As we rolled up to the checkout, Mylene high-fived me.
“This,” she said with pride, “is the kind of feast you throw when you’ve survived a dead husband, a mafia ex-stalker, and a blackmail attempt by the Russian mob.”
I laughed, nearly ran over a display of cranberry juice, and whispered to myself:
“I still don’t know what Thanksgiving really is…
But I do know we’re about to make this holiday our bitch.”
Then came the cooking.
The kind of chaos that could only be described as culinary warfare with a splash of telenovela. The battlefield? My newly redecorated pink kitchen. The weapons? A 25-pound turkey, Jhing Jhing’s emotional instability, and three women with enough trauma to season a thousand meals.
Jhing Jhing showed up with her arms full of groceries and her mouth full of complaints.
“I miss my old oven,” she said dramatically, slamming a bag of garlic on the counter. “It used to talk to me. Literally. It told me, ‘Dinner is ready, darling.’ This one? Silent. Cold. Emotionally unavailable. Like my ex.”
She threw a cabbage at the counter. It bounced off and hit the wall.
“And my new maid!” she yelled, flinging her arms in the air like a telenovela villain. “She wore leggings so tight her camel toe was crying for help in Morse code. And my husband had the nerve to grin. Grin! I almost served him a knuckle sandwich for breakfast.”
Mylene, stirring something suspiciously creamy, didn’t even flinch. “Just fire her.”
“I did. She cried. I cried. Then I Venmo’d her a bonus and told her to leave before I set her leggings on fire.”
Meanwhile, the kids were not around—thank every known deity and minor saint. They were at the park being watched by three Filipina maids we’d temporarily employed for the day. Professional, unbothered, and immune to toddler screams, those women were the true MVPs of the Thanksgiving prep. I was planning to build them a statue later.
Back in the kitchen, we began fighting the turkey.
The thing was massive. It could’ve been its own country. Mylene tried to shove garlic butter under its skin like it owed her the world.
Jhing Jhing tried to brine it using a bucket and accidentally dropped the bucket.
I stabbed it with rosemary like I was purging it of its past sins.
We sweated. We yelled. We laughed maniacally while covered in poultry juice and butter. It was gross and glorious.
Meanwhile, Jhing Jhing’s true calling emerged. While Mylene and I were still trying to find out how to make pie crusts not feel like cardboard regret, she quietly cooked up chicken adobo.
And I kid you not—it tasted like heaven and sex had a baby and raised it in a garlic spa. I took one bite and nearly moaned. “If I wasn’t already divorced, I’d marry this chicken.”
Jhing Jhing raised her spoon like a weapon. “You’re welcome. Generations of heartbreak and soy sauce went into that.”
As the smells filled the air—turkey roasting like a juicy trophy, pie bubbling like sweet betrayal, adobo simmering like poetry—I had a moment. A strange, still moment in the middle of the madness.
I stood there, wearing a gravy-stained apron, my hair up with a kitchen tong, a kid’s drawing stuck to my back somehow, and I just thought:
“I could almost swear... I’m becoming Catherine.”
Not just pretending. Not just hiding.
But actually becoming her.
I laughed easier now. Cried when I wanted.
I wore soft cardigans instead of bulletproof vests.
I argued over stuffing, not smuggling routes.
I hugged my friends instead of threatening rivals.
Jaya was chewing on a cinnamon-scented pinecone. Mylene’s twin was asleep inside a box of instant stuffing. One was wearing a rotisserie chicken hat and the other kept licking the freezer aisle door and claiming it tasted like dreams.
We got everything on her list. A list so long it could be used to suffocate a small man.
A turkey so huge we needed a forklift.
Seven pies, none of which were the same flavor.
Sweet potatoes that could kill someone if thrown.
Enough greens to make a vegan weep.
Several bottles of wine because we’re not saints.
And a table runner that read “Gobble till you Wobble” which we bought ironically but secretly loved.
At some point, a man tried to steal our cart. Mylene hissed at him like a cat and he backed off. The chaos twins threw a can of cranberry sauce at his foot just in case.
An employee tried to ask if we needed help, but once he saw Mylene lifting a frozen turkey like a kettlebell while yelling at the kids in three languages, he turned around and walked the other way.
Me? I just kept looking around thinking:
“Is this what people do for one meal? One turkey dinner? This feels like a military operation. I’ve smuggled diamonds with less effort.”
But I have to admit, despite the madness, the aisles filled with screaming toddlers, glittery pumpkin decor, and seventeen versions of gravy mix—
I felt... kind of good. Strong. Ready. Armed with carts full of carbs and vengeance.
As we rolled up to the checkout, Mylene high-fived me.
“This,” she said with pride, “is the kind of feast you throw when you’ve survived a dead husband, a mafia ex-stalker, and a blackmail attempt by the Russian mob.”
I laughed, nearly ran over a display of cranberry juice, and whispered to myself:
“I still don’t know what Thanksgiving really is…
But I do know we’re about to make this holiday our bitch.”
Then came the cooking.
The kind of chaos that could only be described as culinary warfare with a splash of telenovela. The battlefield? My newly redecorated pink kitchen. The weapons? A 25-pound turkey, Jhing Jhing’s emotional instability, and three women with enough trauma to season a thousand meals.
Jhing Jhing showed up with her arms full of groceries and her mouth full of complaints.
“I miss my old oven,” she said dramatically, slamming a bag of garlic on the counter. “It used to talk to me. Literally. It told me, ‘Dinner is ready, darling.’ This one? Silent. Cold. Emotionally unavailable. Like my ex.”
She threw a cabbage at the counter. It bounced off and hit the wall.
“And my new maid!” she yelled, flinging her arms in the air like a telenovela villain. “She wore leggings so tight her camel toe was crying for help in Morse code. And my husband had the nerve to grin. Grin! I almost served him a knuckle sandwich for breakfast.”
Mylene, stirring something suspiciously creamy, didn’t even flinch. “Just fire her.”
“I did. She cried. I cried. Then I Venmo’d her a bonus and told her to leave before I set her leggings on fire.”
Meanwhile, the kids were not around—thank every known deity and minor saint. They were at the park being watched by three Filipina maids we’d temporarily employed for the day. Professional, unbothered, and immune to toddler screams, those women were the true MVPs of the Thanksgiving prep. I was planning to build them a statue later.
Back in the kitchen, we began fighting the turkey.
The thing was massive. It could’ve been its own country. Mylene tried to shove garlic butter under its skin like it owed her the world.
Jhing Jhing tried to brine it using a bucket and accidentally dropped the bucket.
I stabbed it with rosemary like I was purging it of its past sins.
We sweated. We yelled. We laughed maniacally while covered in poultry juice and butter. It was gross and glorious.
Meanwhile, Jhing Jhing’s true calling emerged. While Mylene and I were still trying to find out how to make pie crusts not feel like cardboard regret, she quietly cooked up chicken adobo.
And I kid you not—it tasted like heaven and sex had a baby and raised it in a garlic spa. I took one bite and nearly moaned. “If I wasn’t already divorced, I’d marry this chicken.”
Jhing Jhing raised her spoon like a weapon. “You’re welcome. Generations of heartbreak and soy sauce went into that.”
As the smells filled the air—turkey roasting like a juicy trophy, pie bubbling like sweet betrayal, adobo simmering like poetry—I had a moment. A strange, still moment in the middle of the madness.
I stood there, wearing a gravy-stained apron, my hair up with a kitchen tong, a kid’s drawing stuck to my back somehow, and I just thought:
“I could almost swear... I’m becoming Catherine.”
Not just pretending. Not just hiding.
But actually becoming her.
I laughed easier now. Cried when I wanted.
I wore soft cardigans instead of bulletproof vests.
I argued over stuffing, not smuggling routes.
I hugged my friends instead of threatening rivals.
End of REVENGE, DIAPER and SNACKS Chapter 62. Continue reading Chapter 63 or return to REVENGE, DIAPER and SNACKS book page.