“Martin—what, what is all this?” I ask, surveying the damage. Two birds, once beautiful, golden-brown and delicious-looking, are mute testimony to the c*****e that’s obviously taken place. There's a pan filled with chunks of turkey varying in size from my hand to the tip of my finger. The remaining turkeys are lined up, awaiting their turn at the hand of this knife-wielding maniac.
“Tom, please,” Martin pleads, “grab a towel and get some of this sweat off me. I don’t want to drip it on the food.”
And that is how I find myself mopping the forehead of trauma surgeon Martin Maycord as he continues to hack away at the unsuspecting birds.
“Martin, I don’t understand,” I say. “I mean, haven’t you ever sliced a turkey before?”
My good friend—OK, he did pull a gun on me and lock me in my own b
