How Real Men Carve a Turkey

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Thanksgiving’s coming up this month and a lot of guys are starting to stress out about their big moment in the spotlight.

Hah, only kidding. Guys don’t think about stuff in advance, unless it has brackets, a tee time, or a swimsuit issue. We like to think we thrive under pressure, so the last minute is plenty o' time. Most guys reading this will stop right here and make a mental note to revisit this post at 3:30 p.m. on the 22nd, except for Canadians, who are already too late. Moving on...
 
For manly men across America, the biggest moment to shine each year involves the super-macho expertise that everyone assumes we have and nobody ever teaches: carving the turkey. Yeah, I know, there are a million videos on YouTube, but real men don’t read instruction manuals and we certainly don’t need to watch some dude in a toque telling us how to use a knife. The last person to cut up our meat for us (Insert Lorena Bobbitt joke here.) was mommy, and we were two at the time.
 
Carving the turkey is a guy thing, as it has been since we were Neanderthals (Insert ‘You still are Neanderthals’ joke here.) living in caves. No matter how much time mom spends tying and basting and seasoning and schlepping the bird around the kitchen, dad gets the final shot at doing a Rambo on the finished product. 
 
For some reason, people think it’s natural that men will carve the turkey. We’re the hunters in a world of hunters and gatherers. All the great knife people were men, like Jim Bowie and old MacHeath, babe, and Mr. Swiss Army…so women assume there must be something in our DNA that makes us great turkey carvers.
 
Except, of course, that we don’t really have a clue, and by “we,” I mean “I.” I never learned to whittle and I don’t even watch Top Chef for gawdsakes. If someone told me to go pack my knives, I’d need to stop at Williams Sonoma to buy some first.
 
Still, if you’re the oldest guy at Thanksgiving dinner and your parole allows you to handle sharp objects, someone is going to urge you to carve the turkey. When that happens, it’s important to approach the ritual with the aura of expertise and confidence that dads have been faking since the dawn of time.
 
So, guys, get yourselves some Botox injections to keep a straight face and follow these simple steps:

1. First, look seriously at the turkey and make some comment to your wife about this year’s version of a Thanksgiving feast. “Hmm, this bird should have spent more time in the rain," or, “They put too much nutmeg extract in their feed again this year.” It’s important to establish that you know your fowl.
2. Next, take at least three knives from the drawer and examine them all. Hold each blade up to the light and then align it with the direction of your first slice. Try to keep a straight face as you announce, “Yes, I’ll use the  28-inch Mohelmaster for this one,” and put the other two knives into the sink.
3. Send everyone out of the room. “You know, this takes a lot of concentration and I’d hate to injure any of you, so perhaps you’ll want to grab your seats in the dining room,” you’ll say. Be firm, promising that the carving will be completed sooner and you only need the privacy for their safety.
4. When everyone is out of the room, start hacking away at the turkey with any tools you can find. Power saws and cold chisels are absolutely acceptable choices, as are pipe wrenches and titanium drill bits. Feel free to use your hands to rip off the drumsticks and thighs rather than using either the knife or those kitchen shears you got for your wedding and never took out of the box.  Speed is more important than skill here, because you need to finish before anyone gets bored at the dinner table and decides to peek at your “technique.”
5. Get everything you can cut off the carcass onto the counter and then transfer it all to a clean, grease-free platter before washing all the turkey grease off your hands. In food-service, it’s all in the presentation, so you can look professional even with tiny, crumbly slices, as long as the platter and your hands are clean. In our master class, we recommend adding sprigs of parsley (Insert parsley joke here.) around the corners of the platter to distract people from the uneven slices. 
6. Present the platter to the family with a sigh and an apology, but never really take the blame and, whatever you do, don’t try to pass the buck to mom. “Sorry I couldn’t get all the slices even this year, but you know how it is with (free range, hormone free, frozen, fresh, Nebraskan, Rastafarian, vegan, whatever) birds. But I’m sure it will taste great, because mom makes the best turkey.” Awwww.

 
After everyone tells you that it’s certain to be fine and you really know how to carve a turkey, mumble some thanks and start passing the platter. And never, ever, ever bring up the subject again.
 
Having perfected the process of pretending to know what I’m doing—a true dadskill—I’ve succeeded in carving turkeys without any deaths* for over forty years.  More recently, being a really generous guy, I’ve graciously allowed a son-in-law or nephew to do the honors. They’ve never really attained my level of expertise yet, but that’s probably because I haven’t sent them this post.

*By "deaths," I am referring to instances in which I was actually charged and convicted, so I am not counting the grease slide of 1997 or the 2003 wishbone impalement in my official record. 

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