In the Norman Rockwell ideal of Christmas, a family sits around a bountiful table. Adoring children and loving wife stare admiringly at the head of the household as he wields the knife masterfully over the golden brown turkey - thin slices fall from the breast, the drumsticks practically jump on to waiting plates.
Reality is a bit different.
Several years ago I cooked a wonderful Christmas dinner for a group of friends - roast turkey with prosciutto stuffing and giblet gravy, parmesan and garlic potatoes au gratin, cranberry-orange compote, garlic string beans, glazed carrots, and chocolate buche de Noel complete with meringue mushrooms and marzipan holly leaves.
When all the food was ready I handed the knife to one of the guests. Since he was a doctor with surgical experience, I figured carving a turkey would be easy, compared to cutting up a patient.
He stared at the bird. 'What do I do?' 'Cut where it's soft and don't cut where it's hard,' I replied.
Armed with this helpful advice, he proceeded to hack off chunks that would have pleased Fred Flintstone.