Two of my children toasting sparkling grape juice to a Steaksgiving feast.

Now that another Thanksgiving and Christmas has passed, I can disclose this secret: I have never once cooked a turkey, despite hosting Thanksgiving and Christmas more than a dozen or so times. It’s weird because I had a roommate in college who cooked one at least once a month. She was allergic to a lot of things. Except turkey. And she would eat that bird over the course of a month. Down to using the carcass for soup.

I’m not saying there is a causal relationship between waking up on many a Sunday morning in college to the sounds of Creedence Clearwater Revival coming from the boom box and the smell of roasting runner up for national bird. But it was definitely a factor.

The truth is, I don’t really like turkey. Nor do my children. I may have unwittingly caused this, but I still cannot tell whether it’s due to nature or nurture.

In the nurture camp would be the fact that I realized I don’t serve food I don’t like to my children. I mean, I did when they were babies, eating baby food. Which, as stages go, was always my least favorite. Seated in front of them trying to get more gelatinous food into their squirming mouths than on their faces, or highchair tray or hair. Even as I remember every time my spoon full of goop was called a train coming into a station or a plane going into a hangar I cannot unsmell the smell of baby food. It makes cat food smell like something you would eat on a Wheat Thin.

Like most parents, I bought everything green and orange and beige that I thought they should be eating. But once they were eating table food, I stopped serving the stuff I didn’t like.

Which meant there were no peas. Or cooked carrots. Or olives of any color. Or Indian food. And no thanksgiving turkey. I’d like to take credit for the tryptophan avoidance. But I can’t.

Several years ago, my oldest very wisely asked: “We hate turkey. Why do we have to have turkey on Thanksgiving just because everyone else does? We like steak. Why can’t we have Steaksgiving?”

Do you ever have one of those moments where you look at your kid and you are blown away by her brilliance? Sort of like the drill sergeant in “Forrest Gump” when he says, “God damn it, Gump, you are a god damn genius!”

At that moment, I did. And just like that, Steaksgiving was born. Some of my family members still bring a turkey with them when I host. They know that thanksgiving at my house is BYOT. Others join us in celebrating Steaksgiving.

I sometimes wonder if I am robbing my children of some experiences by limiting their home-cooked menu based on my biases. But then (in the nature category) I see what they eat at college (pizza rolls…yuck) or at restaurants (random breakfast meats from different farm animals and potatoes and eggs thrown in a skillet and baked) and realize that they clearly have minds (and tastebuds) of their own.

By the same token, I can’t force them to like things I grew up with…like breakfast stew. This is basically cut up beef, water and an onion left in a crockpot overnight. My family cuts French bread, slathers it with butter and then dunks it in the beef broth. For people who didn’t grow up with this, it sounds a lot like prison food, minus the butter. It’s not bad. But it is an acquired taste.

As are Spaghettios, cold out of the can. With a spoon. Something I ate all through college and my kids all seem to like.

Nature or nurture? Even Chef Boyardee can’t say for sure.