The Puerto Rican turkey recipe that connects me to my roots

In a nation of immigrants and migrants, food bonds people to the places they left behind. For those celebrating Thanksgiving, the holiday becomes a bridge between the dishes we enjoyed in our motherlands and our American life. It also becomes a way to share something about our culture with our friends and neighbors. The holiday connects me, a Puerto Rican who grew up between Puerto Rico and Western New York and now lives in Europe, to my family traditions.

One of my first memories of Thanksgiving was at my childhood home in Guayama, Puerto Rico. I was sitting on the kitchen counter, watching my dad mince garlic cloves, pluck fresh oregano leaves, and mix them with olive oil, sazón, adobo, and salt.

My dad, Don Gume, migrated to the mainland United States in his 20s and carved a life and business in Rochester, N.Y. His dream was to return to Puerto Rico, which he ultimately did in 1984, with my mom, brother, and me in tow. He loved Thanksgiving and, every year, continued celebrating by making the turkey in our small seaside town.

The fresh garlic and oregano that permeated the rooms was the same seasoning mix my dad made for his pernil. As the years went by, that scent of pavochón — a portmanteau of pavo (turkey) and lechón (roasted pig) — became more than the anticipation of a succulent turkey leg or a crunchy pork crackling. The smell reminded me of home and my formative years. It’s an aroma I have replicated for nearly four decades.

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My first attempt to make pavochón was in 2003 when I was a Marine Corps officer stationed in Okinawa, Japan. I led a platoon of 50 Marines, mostly around age 22, with ravenous appetites. As a Latina, I wanted to give those under my command a taste of my culture and a warm, comforting meal.

I committed to making two turkeys with arroz con gandules as the main side dish. Seasoned with sofrito, it would be the quintessential Puerto Rican celebratory dish. But of course, I was nervous. I kept asking myself: “Will the taste be as good as my dad’s?” His trick was to season the bird 48 hours before roasting. My mom and dad walked me through the recipes by phone, and the dinner was a hit. I’m happy to have introduced Marines from Georgia to Los Angeles to the joys of Puerto Rican flavors.

Many family food traditions come together at Thanksgiving to remind us where we come from and as a way to honor those beloved family members who are no longer with us. My dad died eight years ago, and most of the memories of him that make me smile are food-related. I remember him carefully inspecting the turkey and seasoning every single inch of that giant bird. I can’t help but smile when I think about seeing him take a spoonful of my mom’s arroz con gandules from the caldero and saying, “está bueno y más.”

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Over the years, my turkey recipe has evolved (one of my tricks is basting the bird with a dark Belgian beer like Chimay Bleu or Leffe Brune), but I have not changed my dad’s seasoning. I’ll serve the turkey to an international crowd at my apartment in Brussels with guests from New Zealand, Venezuela, and Italy, among other countries. Although Thanksgiving is a foreign celebration for them, creating a life in a country that is not ours bonds us.

It’s been almost 20 years since I started preparing Thanksgiving meals outside my childhood home, but there’s something comforting about listening to my mom’s voice walking me through the arroz con gandules recipe. I know the steps, but I still crave to hear to her Spanglish instructions. Little did I know that last year would be the last one that I could call my mom for food advice. She passed away this week. My heart is broken, but our food memories comfort me.

I build closeness with my 6-year-old daughter, Lu, through food. She now hangs out in the kitchen, helping me prepare “abuela’s Puerto Rican rice” as she fondly calls it. The other day, she got close to the caldero and motioned her hands from the pot to her face, trying to get a good whiff of the food. It was a small act, but it made me so proud. I can only hope the scent of pavochón and arroz con gandules evokes the same feeling of home, regardless of where she lives.

12-15 pound turkey (if you go larger/smaller, adjust your seasoning.

For the marinade:

¾ cup olive oil

2-3 tablespoons of dry oregano

2 tablespoons minced garlic

2 tablespoons kosher salt

2 teaspoons sazón/adobo

2 teaspoons black pepper

2 sticks butter, cut into half-inch pieces

Onions, carrots, and celery

Herb sprigs (rosemary, sage, and oregano)

1 (12 oz.) bottle of dark beer (room temperature)

Special equipment: meat thermometer

At least 24 to 48 hours before you plan to roast the turkey, mix the marinade ingredients. Chop the vegetables into 2-inch pieces.

Pat dry the turkey. Make sure it’s fully thawed and dry. With a spoon, loosen the skin and spread the marinade between the skin and breast. Then brush the remaining marinade all over the turkey, including the cavity. Add the pats of butter in between the loosened skin and breast. Cover in aluminum foil and place in the fridge. Leave it there for at least 24 hours, up to two days.

When you’re ready to roast, remove the turkey from the fridge and let it sit for 15-20 minutes. Preheat the oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit.

Insert the cut vegetables and the herb sprigs inside the cavity. They should fit in loosely.

Place turkey breast side up on a roasting pan. Cover loosely with aluminum foil and bake.

Set the timer for two to three hours, depending on the size of your turkey. Baste every 15-20 minutes to keep the turkey moist until it is done.

At the two-hour mark, check for progress with a thermometer, checking between breast and thigh. Continue roasting until turkey temperature reaches 130 degrees.

At 130 F, uncover the turkey and use a baster or a spoon to pour the juices over it to keep it moist. Pour a bottle of beer over the turkey. Baste every 15-20 minutes to keep the turkey moist until it is done.

Use your thermometer to check the turkey between the breast and thigh. It should be 170 degrees.

Let turkey rest for 30 minutes before carving.