🍁A Thanksgiving Morning in the Life of a Chef

The first sound of Thanksgiving morning wasn’t the soft hum of a simmering stock pot or the gentle crackle of an oven preheating—it was my alarm.

And then… my snooze button.

Once.

Twice.

Maybe three times.

Eventually, though, responsibility—and the promise of a perfectly roasted turkey—pulled me upright. The house was still quiet, the kind of quiet that makes you feel like you're the only person awake in the world. I walked through the dim hallway, down the stairs, and into the garage where the cold air wrapped around me like a brisk November handshake.

Waiting there, tucked into the garage refrigerator like a prize waiting to be claimed, was the turkey that had been brining for three days straight in a bus tub full of herbs, citrus, and salted goodness. I lifted it carefully, almost ceremonially, and carried it upstairs.

There’s something sacred about that walk—like transporting a centerpiece of tradition from preparation to purpose.

Two Turkeys, Two Destinations, One Chef

In the kitchen, warm light spilled from the overhead fixtures onto the counter. I set the turkey down, washed my hands, and immediately shifted into that quiet, purposeful rhythm chefs know so well. Today wasn’t just about one turkey—it was about two.

The whole turkey for one family gathering.

A turkey breast for the other.

Two homes.

Two tables.

One chef trying to make sure both groups felt loved, cared for, and well-fed.

I sliced through fresh rosemary, sage, and thyme—the “Thanksgiving Trinity”—and the herbs released a fragrance that softened the last bit of sleep still clinging to me. Butter softened perfectly on the counter, waiting to be tucked under the skin where it would melt slowly into every crevice.

The turkey breast got the same treatment: aromatics, herbs, stock in the bottom of the pan, and a generous layer of butter beneath the skin. Then both pans slid into the oven, and for a moment the world felt steady.

Just then Julie’s footsteps creaked down the stairs.

She wrapped her arms around herself, still waking up, and said, “The house smells amazing already.”

And for a moment, that was better than any Michelin star review.

The Tradition in the Dressing

Once the turkeys were underway, I turned to my dressing—something I’ve been making the same way for nearly twelve years. This isn’t the quick, boxed version people toss together at the last minute.

No. This is the one that tells stories.

Every year I shred a rotisserie chicken breast into the mixture. It adds depth, richness, and a touch of savory magic that transforms the dish entirely. People taste it and think it's some secret family recipe passed down through generations, but really it’s something I stumbled into one year and never let go of.

Some traditions choose you, I guess.

Yesterday’s Feast

Even though today was strictly a family-cooking day, I had prepared a full Thanksgiving spread yesterday for a client—a family who trusted me to craft a meal worthy of their holiday table. I cooked everything fresh, packaged it neatly, and wrote out heating instructions so simple even someone half-awake on Thanksgiving morning could follow them without breaking a sweat.

Being a personal chef in Columbus, Ohio isn’t just about cooking.

It’s about showing up in ways that matter.

Even when I’m not physically there, I want my food to feel like I never left.

The Mishap That Nearly Sank the Kitchen (But Not Really)

Of course, every great chef’s day comes with a little chaos, and mine arrived in spectacular fashion.

As I dumped the three-day brine from the bus tub, the liquid somehow managed to defy physics. Instead of flowing gracefully into the sink like a responsible liquid, it exploded upward in a salty tsunami that crashed over the counter, sprayed the floor, and possibly launched itself into another dimension.

For a split second I just stared at the mess, imagining that future archaeologists would one day unearth my kitchen and theorize that a miniature ocean once lived here.

But hey—if you don’t have at least one Thanksgiving catastrophe, did you even cook?

The “Scorpion” — My Signature Turkey Technique

Now, there’s something I do with my whole turkeys that always raises an eyebrow until I explain it. I call it The Scorpion.

Rather than roasting a turkey in the traditional shape, I gently adjust the hip joints so the legs fold naturally beneath the bird. It’s not violent or strange—it’s a technique born from understanding how heat moves through poultry. Once folded, the dark meat becomes partially submerged in the broth at the bottom of the roasting pan.

The result?

Both the white and dark meat reach perfection at the exact same time.

Juicy. Tender. Balanced.

No dry turkey. No disappointed family members silently reaching for gravy to rehydrate their plate.

This is the kind of technique that separates chefs from recipes.

Gratitude, the Real Flavor of Today

As the turkeys continue to roast while I write this, I’m hit with something deeper than hunger or anticipation.

It’s gratitude.

Not the shallow kind—the real, marrow-deep kind that settles into your chest and stays there.

I’m grateful for every person who has supported me.

Every client who trusted me.

Every friend and family member who kept me motivated.

Every person who said, “Your food changed our holiday,” or “You made tonight special.”

But most of all, I’m grateful that I can still get up in the morning, move with purpose, cook with passion, and serve the people in my life—both personally and professionally.

There’s something powerful about knowing your hands can create comfort, joy, and connection one plate at a time.

From My Kitchen to Yours

Wherever you are today—surrounded by family, celebrating quietly, cooking a lot, cooking a little, or simply enjoying the moment—I hope your Thanksgiving is full of warmth and meaning.

Thank you for reading.

Thank you for supporting my work.

And thank you for letting me share this day, this passion, and this plate with you.

Happy Thanksgiving from my kitchen to yours.

— Chef Robert — Thee Buckeye Chef