Not that anyone is interested (ha, ha!) except me and perhaps Tony, but my fingers are raring to write about it. The writing itch is something I can't ignore; it needs to be scratched.
One of my first grace blogs in 2006 was about our turkey dinner tradition on Christmas eve. It has not been broken yet—not even during the pandemic. What we broke was the preparation. Tony used to do the bird, with the help of our longtime househelper, Ate Vi.
Somewhere down the road, Tony gave up. Son #3, with his youthful evergy, immediately took over. This new chef, however, has a different style from Tony’s, who winged it every single year.
For this young heir, everything has to be scientific—to the letter—from a recipe he meticulously chose from many. All ingredients should be original; no alternatives allowed.
But Ate Vi passed on, and son #3 became a lawyer, swamped with too many stressful court cases. We decided to simply order one.
It was a major error. The taste could not even come close to any of our past turkeys. So the next year, we decided to go on a staycation in a hotel that served turkey on Christmas eve. For three years we did that—if only to honor the tradition.
Guess what came next. The Covid-19 pandemic. Son #3 decided to take on the challenge once more, because an Ate Vi in the person of Teresa (marooned in our home) was a perfect sous chef.
This is our third Christmas dinner where he did the turkey—and it always elicits comments from us, “This is the best one yet!”
Because I hardly go out anymore, I had been able to document the turkey prep step-by-step, from defrosting to serving. It is tedious. It is time consuming. It takes a passion for cooking to master it.
My three sons inherited that passion from their father. Now, please spare my feelings by not asking what genes they got from me. Ha, ha!
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