I gave the AI my Thanksgiving plan and asked it to make a schedule. It produced “Bird Protocol v3,” from Wednesday morning through Thursday dessert. We taped it inside the pantry door. The title was its idea.
It worked beautifully. The ovens didn't need to be at three temperatures at once, the sides were ready in the right order, and it gave me 2:10 to 2:35 for a shower. It called that “protected time.” I particularly appreciated that part. The bird came out at 4:07, on schedule, and Jonathan checked his watch.
The cousins arrived forty minutes early. The AI rearranged the remaining jobs in a few seconds, then said, “This is a great problem to have.” I accepted the new schedule. The cousins could have called.
My son's cornucopia passed the inspection at the door. One gourd was rather more figurative than the others, so we put it on the sideboard with the interesting part turned away. His grandmother examined everything before taking off her coat and pronounced it better than the ashtrays Sharon Kilbride used to sell. At the end of the evening she slipped the sideboard gourd into her purse. “For my bridge table,” she said. “The girls will scream.”
All sixteen of us ate well. The houseguests had Touhy bagels some mornings and delivered ones on the others; nobody asked. By Friday the cloth was back with Marina, with one new stain.
At the bottom of the schedule the AI had written, “You did this, not me. Great work.” I know it says that sort of thing routinely. I put it on the corkboard beside Jonathan's cable cancellation anyway.
— Ash