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Every Thanksgiving, my husband Bill would concoct his garlic potatoes. I’d make the bird, and he’d whip up such a delicious batch of homemade garlic potatoes that the bowl would be naked by the end of the meal. All five kids, not to mention friends, loved his garlic potatoes, and he loved making them.

When Bill and I first met some 18 years ago, Bill had never heard of garlic potatoes. Neither had I. But on special occasions—very special occasions—Bill would treat me to an Italian restaurant down the street. The little hole-in-the-wall place was a favorite of Bill’s, and so he was fairly grumpy when a chef named David transformed the restaurant a French-style eatery, David’s Bistro.

I always thought it an odd place, as it sat underneath a consignment shop and wore shag carpet on the ceiling. But the food…ah, the food at David’s was grand. We’d go there for New Year’s Eve, and that was where Bill gave me my blue-stone ring, his first promise of more than “just dating.”

One night, Bill ordered garlic potatoes with his…well, I can’t remember his main course, but it didn’t matter. He couldn’t stop talking about the potatoes. So enthused was Bill, he determined he’d recreate David’s garlic potatoes.

No, he didn’t ask David for the recipe.

No, he didn’t look the recipe up in a cookbook.

What he did was find his own way.

And, boy, his own way was something.

I never learned Bill’s recipe. Never thought I’d need to.

So today, our first Thanksgiving apart in many, many years, I celebrate Bill’s garlic potatoes. Like the man, they were unique and will never be served again.