The brine was essential to making the turkey. The father had always insisted on that. There were many things that father and son disagreed on, and that was one of them. While many of their disagreements had ended in shouts and fury, once even in blows, it was the disagreement over brine that had made them strangers. No argument over it, just a huff of pretend indifference, and a refusal to share holidays when the turkey was served in a contrary manner.
With the father now atomized and sitting on the living room mantle, above the fireplace in a tiny new home, the son stood in the kitchen. He struggled to remember the recipe for the brine and how long to let the turkey sit in it. His smartphone sat inches away, but he refused to look up an answer. It wouldn’t be the way his father had done it.
See the author’s published work here.
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