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By the time I had memories of Thanksgiving, he was well ensconced in this truly American tradition and celebrated it with customary gusto. He would rise early to put the bird in the oven. From the doorway of the kitchen I would watch him washing the turkey. He was a designing engineer by trade and his craft didn’t leave him as he meticulously closed the cavity with artful crosses of butcher’s string.
For most of the year I rarely saw my father in the kitchen save for Sundays and the holidays. Those were his to shine and my mother knew better than to intrude with his culinary undertakings.
My father really took great delight in preparing the turkey. On this day of traditional thanks, I feel that the larger bird he had to prepare, the happier he was. Thus, we would usually have turkey for many days.
While my mother baked pies and side dishes and set a very fancy table, my father would tend to the turkey for many hours, basting it religiously.
The aroma on Thanksgiving day was heavenly as the smells of Dad’s bird wafted throughout the house.
But, it was my father’s dressing that was the true masterpiece.
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