Róisín Ingle ... on Turkey Eve

'For me, the only turkey is a brined one." That's how Nigella begins her turkey instructions which I intend to follow to the letter. I don't know what exactly it is about her, but when she says stuff like this – authoritative and just on the right side of passive aggressive – I melt. Butter. I melt industrial quantities of butter and lick my fingers and go foraging for all the ingredients she says to put in the brine which will act like a bath for the turkey, making it super-juicy and slightly spiced and basically Nigellicious. I did it again this year and the turkey has been the talk of the house for weeks. Our turkey's name is Tommy. His name is always Tommy. Consistency is key.

"Not only does it tenderise and add subtle spiciness, but it makes carving the turkey incredibly much easier. You have only to try this method to be utterly convinced."

I know, Nige, I know. Incredibly much. And you are right I was utterly convinced the first time we tried it when Tommy the Turkey came out of the oven and was so tender we felt like putting our arms around him and administering him with a group hug but instead we got the carving knife out. And it was like a hot knife through butter carving Tommy that year. And this year will be the same. We'll have turkey as Tender as a Belinda McKeon novel.

“And I mean to say: how hard is it to fill a pan or large plastic bin or bucket with water and spices and lower a turkey into it?”

Not hard at all, Nige. Which is why I like the cut of your giblets. It’s easy, peasy (unwaxed) lemon squeezy. We bought a new bin in Argos for Tommy’s bath and as we lowered him in we did a little prayer to the gods of succulence.

“At this time of year, it’s fine just to leave it in a cold place. I sit mine by an open window in the kitchen. It means everyone freezes, but who am I going to put first – my turkey or my family?”

The turkey obvs. Totally with you there, Nige. Priorities.

“Out in the garden if you’re lucky enough to have one would also be fine, though the pan must be securely covered: if I’ve got a bucket or bin out in the open, I cover it twice with foil and then put my son’s skateboard on top to prevent foxy foraging.”

We are not lucky enough to have a garden but we put ours outside in the yarden – my word for 2015, thank you Una Mullally – with a lid on top and one of the children’s scooters on top because any chance I get to have something in common with Nigella, I take it and run with it.

“And, though you might find it hard to believe sight unseen, a raw turkey covered in brine – with its oranges, cinnamon sticks, and scattering of spices – looks so beautiful as it steeps that I can never help lifting the lid for quick, blissfully reassuring peeks.”

She’s not wrong there either. In between present wrapping and self-flagellating over leaving myself too much to do on Christmas Eve AS PER USUAL I found it very calming to go outside at regular intervals and stick my nose in the bucket of raw turkey and brine. It’s hard to be frazzled when you are imbibing the scent of orange, black peppercorns, bouquet garni, all -spice berries, mustard seeds, ginger, caraway seeds, star anise, honey, maple syrup and parsley. When I think back to my mother’s turkeys, I think how quaint it is that we enjoyed them at all considering they were essentially just turkey with maybe some salt and pepper and a bit of parsley stuffing.

My mother burned the turkey once. It’s probably my most memorable Christmas apart from the one where she wore a nightie all day fully believing it was a dress. The Year Mum Burned the Turkey the house filled with that putrid burned poultry smell and my mother cried into a tea towel and we all said it didn’t matter, that we liked turkey much better when it was well done and sort of sawdusty.

Tonight, with the blessing of my Christmas spirit animal (it’s Nigella, not the turkey), Tommy will be residing in an aromatic bucket bath while we head to my sister’s house for her traditional annual Christmas Eve Lobster Bisque Risotto Dinner.

We will drink champagne and we might play Nap or Napoleon which is the tricksy card game my mother imported from London and which her mother, my Nanny Ethel, taught her to play. So we’ll play Nap and at some point one of us will make a silly move or forget a rule and someone will say “oh, Nanny would be turning in her grave!” And in that exact moment, it will finally and indisputably be Christmas.

Have a great one, Nige. And Merry Christmas everyone. Public Displays of Emotion by Róisín Ingle is now available to buy from irishtimes.com/ irishtimesbooks