My grandfather has carved the Thanksgiving turkey for 70 years. Here’s what he taught me
Surrounded by his lanky greatgrandchildren, my grandfather’s slight, 5-foot frame hunches over the turkey.
“How are you feeling, Poppa?” I ask. “I feel 95,” he answers with a grin, or maybe, since he is 95, it’s a grimace.
I realize not every family has an experienced carver at the helm. This revelation hit me last Thanksgiving: We had two large birds that needed carving.
When my well-intended husband noticed Poppa’s fatigue from carving turkey No. 2, he took over the knife — and proceeded to hack the beautiful bird to ugly pieces.
I decided it was time for my Poppa to divulge his great secret of turkey carving for future generations.
So, I called him and asked, “You’ve been carving the Thanksgiving turkey ever since my mom was little — at least for 70 years now. How’d you learn to do it, and what’s the trick?”
I guess I expected Yoda-like advice or detailed instructions. Instead, I got an equally ponderous answer: “You cut through the legs and the breast, and you always save the wing.” “Save the wing?” I repeated. “Grandma always liked the fligl,” Poppa clarifies, using the Yiddish word. “If I was in charge of carving the turkey, I could make sure she got her fligl.”
After Poppa hung up, I was left staring at my phone’s screen saver. All these years he had been carving the turkey just so he could be sure my grandma got the piece she wanted?
Since this revelation, I’ve decided to make sure that my husband is prepared to be the relief carver this Thanksgiving. So, when Poppa’s knees finally give, he can take over and make great ugly cuts.
“Save me the skin,” I’ll whisper to my husband. Because if I learned anything, it’s that tradition doesn’t lie in the precision of the slices but in the love that’s put into carving them.