Clara removed the napkin from her lap and set it forcefully on the table like she was about to get up. She hovered for a moment a few inches above her chair before deciding, for the sake of the children, to sit back down. “Well, the food looks delicious. We can be grateful for that.”
Patrick softened. “Amen.” He placed his hand on Clara’s forearm, an acknowledgment that he was the one on edge.
“Are dogs supposed to eat turkey?” Maisie asked, peering down at Marlene. If this was of genuine concern or if she sensed the need to change the room’s tone, Patrick wasn’t sure. But he could have kissed her for dialing the temperature down.
“Are people supposed to eat turkey? That’s the question.”
“YETH!” Grant bellowed with a mouth full of potato mush.
“There are certain people foods that are bad for dogs, I think onions for one, and raisins and chocolate. But for the most part, table food is fine. Turkey is fine. But no drumsticks. She could choke on the bones. We can check the list tomorrow if you like.”
“Do you think maybe we should check now?”
“No.”
“Patrick,” Clara scolded.
“I think we should eat our food while it’s hot.” He took a bite of his cauliflower.
Clara cleared her throat to get her brother’s attention.
Patrick looked at her, annoyed. “Are you choking on a turkey bone?”
“Maisie is asking you if you’re sure because she’s concerned about potential harm to someone she’s become attached to.” Clara gestured toward the dog by nodding her head several times to the left.
Patrick’s face grew hot, embarrassed that it was Clara who clocked this after the outburst he’d just had. They were actually not a bad team; it was clear why parenting was often done in pairs. “Turkey is definitely fine. Let me tell you a story. When I first moved to Los Angeles I was working as an assistant to this producer guy. Real asshole.”
“PATRICK.”
“It’s fine,” Maisie said, twirling her fork in her stuffing. “We’re used to it.”
“I wanted to quit every day, but, I don’t know—I guess I thought he could help me get auditions or something. Anyhow. He used to send me to pick up food for his dog at this gourmet dog food place. All the meals were made with people food but, you know, it was packaged especially for dogs. Low sodium, real ingredients. All that nonsense. But they had turkey. Turkey with whole wheat macaroni. Lima beans. Brussels sprouts. Something like that.”
“Gross!” Grant interjected.
“Not for the dogs! Compared to what they’re used to eating? This was not for the hoi polloi.” Patrick glanced down at Maisie. “Regular people. Anyhow, his dog loved it! A few weeks later, this guy’s wife gives birth to their first child and before you know it he’s asking me to find him a private chef to make gourmet food for the baby. At this point he’s on my sh—naughty list because he hasn’t helped me get one audition. So I’m picking up the dog food one afternoon, thinking, ‘Where on earth am I going to find a private baby food chef?’ This was, I don’t know—before smartphones. Then it dawns on me. Why not just blend up the dog food? Put it in little jars. It’s really people food anyway, and without any preservatives or sodium. So, I do it.”
“You did not.” Clara’s jaw was practically on her plate.
“I most certainly did! I drove to the Container Store, which I was already familiar with because a month prior he told me to replace every plastic container in his house with glass because of the PVCs, or the CFCs, or the CDCs, or MTVs, or whatever. So I got these little glass jars, blended up the dog food and, voilà! Instant baby food.”
“The baby ate dog food?” Maisie’s eyes were so wide, they might as well have been propped open with toothpicks and Grant spit out some of his food.
“Dog food, baby food. The kid loved it! So much so, this guy, my boss, he started bragging to all his celebrity friends about this great new baby food chef that I found him. And how they had to hire him, having no idea the whole time it was me! So I bought a couple of those, I forget what they’re called—NutriBullets, Vitamixes, whatever they had at the time—and picked up a trunkload of supplies from the pet store, several cases of glass jars, and fired up my blenders. I jacked the price, my profit margin was insane! I swear, for like six months I had every famous baby eating dog food.”
Clara had had enough, and leaned over to cut the meat on Grant’s plate.