The kitchen smells like warm orange peels and rosemary. Surrounded by the lanky bodies of great-grandchildren, my grandfather’s slight, 5-foot frame hunches over the turkey, a flowered apron tied around his waist to shield his sweater from grease splatters. “Who wants a taste?” he asks his adoring fans, as he spears a dripping piece of skin.
I marvel as my 6-year-old daughter , a strict noodletarian, pops the glistening turkey in her mouth. As picky as she is, she knows the family secret: Nothing tastes better than the first bite, straight from The Carver himself.