Chapter 16: The Thanksgiving Disaster, P 2 of 7
Monica Geller stood rigid at the stainless-steel counter in the community room kitchen, her apron a pristine white fortress against the encroaching chaos. The yeasty aroma of rising dinner rolls clashed with the sharp sting of disinfectant she'd sprayed moments ago, a scent that usually soothed her but now felt like a taunt. Her dark brown eyes narrowed as she kneaded the dough, fingers sinking into its soft resistance with a violence that mirrored the throbbing pulse in her temples. The low hum there climbed higher, a siren warning of the disaster brewing beyond her control.
I just need thirty minutes. Thirty minutes to lock down the menu, to make the rolls immutable, to keep this kitchen from turning into a war zone.
The swinging door burst open with a groan of hinges, shattering her fragile peace. Joey Tribbiani sauntered in, mid-chew, his dark eyes glinting with a guilty spark that set her teeth on edge. His tight t-shirt stretched across his chest as he ran a hand through his styled hair, a telltale sign of his nerves.
"Mon, hey, whatcha doin'?"
Her hands froze mid-plunge, dough clinging to her fingers like a plea for mercy. The hum in her temples spiked into a shrill whine, her jaw clenching so hard it ached.
"Joey," she said, voice a dangerous whisper, "what is in your mouth?"
He swallowed hard, throat bobbing, feet shuffling like a kid caught stealing cookies. "Just… a little snack. Tasted good. You know. Carbs."
Her forensic gaze landed on the mixing bowl, its emptiness a gaping wound where her grandmother's apple pie dough had rested. The raw egg warning flashed in her mind, a biological hazard now lodged in Joey's gut.
"Joey," she snapped, voice cracking like a whip, "that was the raw dough for the crust. It had raw egg."
His grin vanished, replaced by a greenish pallor. He clutched his stomach, eyes widening in horror, and let out a low, guttural groan that reverberated like a bassoon tuning for a dirge.
"Oh... My... God," he whispered, hand dragging across his face. "I'm gonna be sick. I'm so gonna be sick."
He stumbled back, gluttony's betrayal etched in every line of his body. Ted Mosby rushed in, his peacoat collar shifting under his fidgeting fingers, brown eyes darting between Joey's distress and Monica's glare. His architect's mind whirred, plotting a salvage operation.
"Okay, okay, deep breaths. It's just pie crust," Ted said, tone brimming with forced optimism. "We can sub in store-bought! We can pivot! It's a design change, not a structural failure!"
Before Monica could unleash her fury, a sound sliced through the kitchen—grating, nasal, and utterly unwelcome. "Oh. My. God!"
Janice stood in the doorway, arms cradling a garish yellow casserole dish, her perm a chaotic crown. Her laugh erupted, a machine-gun burst that bounced off the steel surfaces, amplifying Monica's rage.
"Hi, Monic-a! I just wanted to drop off my famous Tuna Noodle Casserole! It's a Thanksgiving classic!"
Chandler Bing, lurking near the door for a roll, flinched as if struck, his lean frame recoiling behind Ted like a shield. The dry taste of dread coated his tongue, blue eyes narrowing.
"I will pay you fifty dollars to stop talking," he muttered into Ted's peacoat, voice a strained whisper.
Monica's face flushed white, then splotchy red. The pie dough was a lost cause, and now this culinary abomination threatened her sanctuary. She pointed a trembling finger at the exit.
"Janice," she growled, voice low and lethal, "I appreciate the thought. But this kitchen is quarantined. No outside food. No noodle casseroles. No. Anything. Out."
Raised voices pierced the swinging door from the community room, a tense bicker escalating. Rachel Green's indignant tone cut through.
"These are vintage Irish lace, Robin! They're not 'dust rags for a Canadian barn dance'!"
Robin Scherbatsky's husky retort followed, laced with sarcasm.
"And your twigs look like a beaver's dropped its dental floss, Rachel! Use the linen with some class!"
Ted rubbed his temples, abandoning the menu to play peacemaker, darting out to mediate. Monica was left with Joey's groans, the empty bowl, and the lingering stench of tuna.
From the corner, a high-pitched wail erupted, followed by the acrid bite of burnt sugar. Phoebe Buffay's corner of chaos had ignited.
"Oh, no!" Lily Aldrin cried, her small frame slumping over a smoking oven, red hair falling from her bun. "My cosmic cookies! They're... they're carbon dust!"
Marshall Eriksen enveloped her in his flannel-clad arms, his Viking pendant swaying as he hummed a warm, silly tune about burnt food.
The dough is raw, the air is toxic, the decor is a fire hazard, and the cookies are dead. Monica squeezed her eyes shut, craving her clipboard, order, anything but this demolition site.
Later, Monica sat with Phoebe, the kitchen's hum fading to a distant pulse. The gritty taste of a pretzel lingered on her tongue as Phoebe strummed a soft chord. Their silence stretched, a fragile respite, her necklace glinting as she traced its edges, mind racing to rebuild her fortress.
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