I look at this iconic painting of the iconic white American family sitting at table celebrating that most American of holidays, Thanksgiving—Ma at the head, eye drawn to the huge roasted turkey on an oval platter that she’s bending to place on the table; Pa, black-suited, standing behind, not helping her—and think to myself: only a man could have painted this image, a man who never once hosted a large gathering; or roasted, carved and served a whole turkey.

How do I know? I have roasted, carved and served many whole turkeys over the years—the largest, a twenty-one pounder— and let me tell you: it’s not possible to quickly and neatly slice that baby at table surrounded by impatient, salivating loved ones.