My father wasn’t born in this country. He came from the Philippines in the early 1930s with, I believe, one intent in mind: to embrace America as his own.
He became an American citizen, worked decades for the federal government, was an officer in the U.S. Navy, loved to play golf, and—for special occasions—made our kitchen his world. By the time of my earliest 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 the occasional Sundays and the holidays. Those were his time to shine and my mother knew better than to intrude upon his culinary undertakings.
My father really took great delight in preparing the turkey. On this day of traditional thanks, I feel that the larger the bird he had to prepare, the happier he was. Thus, we would usually have turkey leftovers lasting 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 fragrances of Dad’s bird wafted throughout the house.
But it was my father’s dressing that was the true masterpiece.
He would start the day before, cutting and toasting bread cubes. I don’t recall at that time if you could purchase bags of bread cubes. No matter; he had his own method for creating his bread squares.
Peeking through the kitchen doorway again, I’d see him deftly handling the knife, chopping onions and celery, melting butter in a large pot, pouring in some liquid, tasting, seasoning, and stirring.
When we were finally all seated at the dining room table, it was my father’s dressing that was always the biggest hit.
I hadn’t developed a taste for mushrooms yet and would always query him if he had put any in the dressing.
“No,” he would say. “Just eat it. You’ll like it.”
It was never dry. Rather, it was very moist and comfortable, and it left me smiling and reaching for seconds.
As the years went on, the reputation for my father’s dressing spread among our family members. Each Thanksgiving, it was the one dish that everyone looked to the most—Dad’s moist stuffing with the unmistakable good flavor.
My father passed away 27 years ago.
The first Thanksgiving that occurred after his death, my sister was in Oregon and I was here in Virginia. I can’t recall which one of us called the other, but it was with the same question: “Do you have Dad’s stuffing recipe?”
“I think he may have put some soup in it,” said my sister.
“Well, I do know now that he used mushrooms,” I replied. I had eventually discovered that he did put in mushrooms, but to my father’s credit, he chopped them very finely and buried them from my scrutiny—and, obviously, they added flavor.
In our long history of living with this man who migrated to America from an island culture, we never thought to preserve this recipe that I believe was never written down. I never saw him looking in a cookbook or pulling folded paper from my mother’s recipe collection.
Since my mother stayed clear of him when he was preparing this dish, she also didn’t recall how he did it, only that it was very good.
Every year or so, one of us will lay claim that we’ve duplicated Dad’s dressing, but I know it is not so.
This year, as I prepared to celebrate Thanksgiving, I had stuffing on my list. As I began to write down ingredients, my memory went back to the old kitchen and images of my father chopping and tasting.
The stuffing is one of my grown children’s favorites. While I’d like to say it’s a recipe refined by their grandfather, I cannot lay claim to that.
I can only savor the memory.
