Chapter 9: The One with the Thanksgiving Mishap
Monica Geller was not a calm person. She was, in fact, a tightly wound spring of competitive rage and a pathological need for perfection. And today, she was hosting her first Thanksgiving dinner. She had a list. A very, very long list.
"Okay, Monica. Breathe. It's Thanksgiving. It's just dinner. It's not a competition. It's not… a military operation. But it is. It is a competition. I have to make the best Thanksgiving dinner in the history of Thanksgiving dinners. The turkey has to be golden. The potatoes have to be fluffy. The stuffing has to be… a work of art. And everyone has to love it. They have to! And I have to be the perfect hostess. No one can know that I'm a complete and total mess on the inside. No one can know that I'm just one wrong ingredient away from a complete and total meltdown."
She was in the kitchen, a whirlwind of motion, barking orders at everyone. Ross, who was still moping about his Nana, was on the couch, just staring into space. Rachel, who was trying to help, was a disaster.
"Monica, what do I do with this?" Rachel asked, holding up a raw potato.
"You peel it, Rachel! You peel it with a peeler! Not a knife! A peeler! And you don't just throw the peels away! You save them! For… for garnish! For… for something!" Monica shrieked, her face red with frustration. "And Joey! Joey, stop eating the stuffing! It's not ready yet! It's a work in progress!"
Adam, meanwhile, was in a corner, a quiet, amused smile on his face. "Alright, Mr. Omniscient Dating System. Thanksgiving. A time for family, friends, and… a prank. As a joke, and only as a joke, because I know Monica will get me back, how do I impress Monica Bellucci at Thanksgiving dinner?"
[Bring a rare Italian wine to Monica's Thanksgiving, November 24, 1994. Say: 'This wine is as unique and refined as the woman who cooked this meal.']
Adam's eyes widened slightly. "A rare Italian wine. The System is getting good. This is a two-for-one. It's a great gift for Bellucci, and it's a great way to mess with Monica. She's going to be so jealous. And the prank... oh, the prank is going to be a masterpiece." He then discreetly swapped Monica's salt with a sugar packet. This was going to be glorious.
Later, the group was all gathered for dinner. Monica was beaming. She had made a beautiful meal. The turkey was golden brown, the potatoes were perfect, and the stuffing was… a work of art. She took a big gulp of the stuffing, her eyes widening in horror. "What is this?! It's… it's sweet! It tastes like… a dessert! A terrible, terrible dessert!"
She looked over at Adam, who was trying to hide a smug grin behind his wine glass. "Adam! Did you do this?! Did you mess with my spices?! Did you switch my salt with sugar?! Was it sugar?! I swear to God, Adam, if it was sugar, I'm going to kill you!"
Adam, feigning innocence, just shrugged. "I don't know what you're talking about, Monica. Maybe your perfect stuffing is just a little… bland. A little too sweet for your taste."
The group, of course, was in hysterics. Even Ross, who was still moping, had to stifle a laugh. Rachel, meanwhile, was in a full-blown panic. She had just taken her dessert out of the oven. It was a beautiful, but very, very, very burnt pie.
"I… I burnt it," she stammered. "I burnt the pie. I'm a failure! I'm a terrible cook! I'm a terrible friend!"
Joey, meanwhile, was just happily eating the burnt pie. "It's good, Rach! It's got a nice… charred flavor. It's… rustic!"
Monica, of course, was not amused. Her eyes held a deep, unyielding fury. "Oh, it is on, Adam. It. Is. On."
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