My dad made a ritual of carving the Christmas turkey. Usually, he'd have started on the first glass of wine after the presents were opened.
By the time the turkey came to the table, he was Caesar in the forum, wobbling, but full of confidence and authority.
His own mother would give a running commentary on the quality of the tipsy butcher's efforts: "Your father could cut slices as big as a hand. It looks like it's shedding feathers, those wispy slices wouldn't fill a tooth."
She could keep it going, but somehow he kept calm. Then he once said this: "I could get mad and then you would be sad. Or you could get mad and I'd be sad. Why not let us both be glad, for all we knew and all that we had."
It made for a Christmas truce, but we had goose thereafter.