Back for these holidays, the Snapshots series, an end-of-year gift from journalists from Duty,pproposes fictional texts inspired by archive photos sent by readers to the reaction. Today, a text by Laurence Clavel from a photo by Jean Bernard Fournier.
Every year, it was the same story: my uncle Normand insisted on being responsible for cooking the traditional turkey on New Year’s Day, and my aunt Louise kicked him out of HER kitchen (very gently, and with a smile on his face). lips) of spatula. “Wooosh, wooosh!” Don’t worry, your hands are full of thumbs! » She always ended up authorizing him to distribute the little cocktail sausages (“with lots of Wochtechtechire sauce: that’s what makes you want to come back!”). Or, in the years when she was “in a good mood”, she allowed her to sprinkle a little (more) sugar on the traditional potato donuts, while my cousins, my sister and I waited for our share of this dessert blessed with impatience, palms open on the Formica table, already hoping, between two yawns, to have time to refill in secret. “You do the blessing, I make the food,” she said each time to my uncle. Each his trade ! »
Louise reigned over her kitchen like Jehane Benoit over hers. Each pan had its place, each utensil its pot, its hook or its drawer. She instinctively knew when to stir the sauce, take the ham out of the oven, or add a little more clove. And for my aunt — and therefore for the whole family — holiday meals were sacred. The menu was always the same from year to year, except for a pinch of salt. Louise would sit down at the stove at dawn and only come out of the kitchen to ask one to fetch her two or three carrots from the storeroom and the other to take the checkered tablecloth (“No, not that one. That’s the Easter tablecloth!”) in the big cedar cupboard made by my grandfather.
My uncle Normand, after having suffered another refusal (since the time they had been married, we were surprised that he was still trying), watched his wife come and go in the kitchen, comfortably seated in his armchair “at arm “. The whole family said it was beautiful to see him like that, still so in love, unable to take his eyes off his favorite cook. And yes, it was true, he looked at her, his Louise, but at the same time, he recorded all her movements and he learned, little by little, how to cook…
And, on this first day of 1975, he would finally be able to get his hands dirty.
As soon as we arrived that New Year’s Day, we saw that nothing was as usual. My aunt Louise was in the living room, sipping a spruce beer. “I don’t know what’s happening to me, I didn’t sleep all night. It looks like I haven’t digested yesterday’s pie,” she explained to us, while reminding us to put our boots in the bath. “Can you go carry the coats to the bed, my beautiful Geneviève? she asked my sister. Matante doesn’t have the energy. It’s good to say: I had all the trouble in the world making my toast in the morning. »
However, the most festive scents were coming from the kitchen. It smelled of poultry, atocas, sugar… It smelled of New Year’s Day. “I didn’t have the heart to cook: I let Normand take care of it. I don’t know what it’s going to be, but, for once: he’s going to be happy,” continued my aunt, guiding us, with small, tired steps, towards the kitchen, where, in addition to the smell, came from sounds of dishes clashing, spoons stirring and, yes, that was it, my uncle Normand was humming a Christmas carol!
He had succeeded! After all these years, here he was finally cooking the New Year’s Day meal. And this holiday meal was not worm-eaten! “It’s a recipe of my invention,” my uncle exclaimed when he saw us arrive, wide-eyed, in my aunt Louise’s kitchen that he had so quickly made his own. “I call it “poultry duck turkey”! It’s a turkey, stuffed with duck, stuffed with chicken! »
We couldn’t believe our eyes or our ears! My uncle Normand was transformed: wearing my aunt Louise’s kitchen apron, he was carving a huge turkey as if he had been doing that all his life. Beside him, Louise, who suddenly seemed to have a boost of energy, was preparing to spin the lettuce. “Settle down, settle down!” It’s almost ready! my uncle called out to us. Louise, would you go and get the beautiful checkered tablecloth from the wardrobe? »
It was a memorable New Year’s Eve meal. My uncle Normand’s “turkey with duck and poultry” was tasty, the little sausages had just enough Wochtechtechire sauce and the potato donuts melted in your mouth, like every year. But what marked us the most that year was the smile of my uncle Normand. And the way he and my aunt looked at each other, with stars in their eyes…
“Whoa!” There ! Don’t be ambitious about blessed bread! Next year, I’ll be the one making the meals! » Louise hurriedly announced once the meal was finished. Was it a particular ingredient in my uncle’s recipe that gave him back his usual enthusiasm during meals? No one ever knew…
Nevertheless, since 1975, every year at New Year, we cook the nesting turkey from father to son in my family. My uncle Normand passed the recipe on to his son — my cousin Jean-Luc — who himself passed it on to his son Étienne. And even if, for the rest of the world, the recipe appeared in the 1980s in the United States, in the family, we know well, the turduckenit comes from Saint-Jérôme, PQ.