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Andrea's column: We all make mistakes

Thanksgiving was supposed to be easy for my husband and me this year. It would be just the two of us, so I said we should keep it simple. Sleep in, read the paper in bed, watch a DVD.

He had picked up a frozen turkey breast and some fully-cooked side dishes at the store: Our favorite mashed potatoes, roasted root vegetables and mushroom gravy. Once the meat was nearly done, all we needed to do was heat the accompaniments and take out the pumpkin pie.

Later in the day, as we slathered the turkey breast with olive oil, I calculated the time it would take to cook. Once the oven door was closed, I suggested we get out the Thanksgiving table cloth. My husband shrugged his shoulders and expressed a half-hearted, "Sure."

"We should use the cloth napkins, too," I said, as we inched the table covering a bit here and a bit there until it was even. My husband looked down at his jeans and sweatshirt and gave me a look that said, "Are you kidding me, cloth napkins and blue jeans?" He sighed as only a husband can and went to the pantry to get the napkins.

I suggested using the good dishes. "It is just us, you know," he said as he bent down to retrieve the Tuscan-themed plates and bowls. I wiped off the dishes, set them on the counter and figured out when we should get the trimmings ready to go in the oven.

When the time came, we checked the turkey breast and realized what anyone who took high school math classes with me would know: I am not the one who should assess how long it takes to cook a four-and-a-half pound piece of bird. I had miscalculated by a half-hour. At least.

My husband heaved that sigh of his and said we all make mistakes. Somewhere between that statement and taking the lid off the container of gravy, I said I wasn't even hungry anymore and might just go to bed.

He must have felt the same because he started returning containers to the refrigerator. I told him not to forget the gravy and before I knew it, the plastic container was out of my hand and falling to the floor. The contents spewed like lava over the wood. During the cleanup, we rescheduled our dinner for Friday night. Luckily, when I called the next morning, the co-op still had mushroom gravy.

Sunday night, as leftovers reheated, I sat at the table and readied the movie we would watch during dinner. I asked my hubby to bring a glass of wine to me. As he went to set the glass on the table, the stem hit the chair to my left. I watched as the burgundy cloud hovered over the table and then dropped to the table cloth and chair cushion before splintering into drops that splattered to the beige carpeting.

My husband apologized as he poured club soda on the rug and blotted the spots with a white towel. I tried to say it was just a mistake, that we all make them. It's true but I couldn't get the words to come out of my mouth. Maybe later this week after the carpet cleaner leaves and the chair is at the upholstery shop.

Until then, if you see my husband, give him a little hug, will you? Tell him we all make mistakes. Especially, his cold-hearted wife.