My father Paul heard the rumor that I was going to make a linguiça stuffing to go with the Thanksgiving turkey. This prompted him into action. He picked up the telephone and called me right away – because to him – I’d lost my mind and worse — his family traditions were at stake. ‘Portuguese sausage in turkey? That’s nonsense.’ he said before I could even say ‘Happy holidays to you too!’
I tried to explain the linguiça in a way that would appeal to his sense of history so told him about how that type of sausage reflects the large number of Portuguese-Americans here on Cape Cod and the Islands (where I live) whose ancestors came here as fishermen.’ This was greeted with silence and let me tell you — there’s nothing like my father’s nothing on the other end of a phone line. I was in trouble. I could hear his thoughts grinding away as well as his jaw: ‘My daughter, my grandchildren, linguiça stuffing for the Thanksgiving turkey? Not in my lifetime.’ I could see Paul standing there in his kitchen at 1709 Hoyt Street, apartment #7 in heart of America’s dairy land – scratching out this third child’s phone number with a nubby pencil from the list – the one that my mom keeps taped to the inside of the spice cabinet. Then I envisioned him marching into the study – after he hung up on me – the will was next.
I did my best to divert the topic away from all-things stuffing – my pick and roll is always the kids. I said ‘the boys are getting really tall and they’re doing well in school too….’ He responded with a subdued passive grunt – so I knew I was still in the game – because then he proceeded to tell me how to make the right turkey stuffing – his recipe – the one with pork sausage and sage. He made sure to include one of his special footnotes, just for me: ‘You’ve watched me for enough years – I’d like to think that you know how to cook it by now….’
All my father’s best lectures start with blood and guts and this one was no different. ‘The giblets’ he said ‘you’ve got to chop them up. Real fine. Pound the liver, the heart, the kidney with a good mincing knife – the kind with a sharp round blade. And add them to the pork. Then your stuffing will be the real thing. And by the way’ Paul said ‘were you the one who took my mother’s mincer – where is that? – and the bowl that goes with it?’ No — I told him – it was Ann, the oldest daughter. She did it. ‘Huh’ he said. He’d call her after he got done with me. And this from a man who he says ‘Do you think I own AT & T?’ – every time a long distance call comes even close to three minutes.
Then he proceeded to go through the entire process step by step right up through stitching the bird closed ‘nicely’ with a good needle and thread. And of course he included every possible turn where I’d be likely to make a mistake. Paul’s speech concluded with a grim admonition – ‘and for heaven’s sake — don’t jam up the poor thing – leave it some breathing space or it’ll take forever to roast, and then it’ll be dry or worse – it’ll burst wide open and you’ll have bird everywhere.’
My father hung up on me after another one of his nothing silences and this — his parting words: ‘And don’t worry’ he said ‘if the Thanksgiving turkey does explode – that creates its own peculiar excitement and it’s something that the kids will remember forever.'
