At 2 p.m. Thanksgiving afternoon, wives across America will unite with a bloodcurdling scream:

“Dear, you forgot to take the turkey out of the freezer!”

From living rooms coast to coast, husbands will respond with a reasoned, well-thought answer:

“Honey, can you grab me another beer? While you’re at it, bring more nachos and guacamole. The football game is tied.”

Obviously, the “you forgot to take the turkey out of the freezer” discussion shouldn’t happen an hour before relatives—whom you haven’t seen since last Thanksgiving—are standing at your front door. As hostess gifts are exchanged, the women mutter under their breath, “I don’t know why I put up with this.”

Some people prefer a fresh turkey rather than frozen. Others insist on free-range. But in the end, only two things matter when it comes to your Thanksgiving bird.

First, it must be large enough to provide plenty of leftovers for hot and cold turkey sandwiches, turkey pot pies, turkey-a-la-king, turkey casserole, turkey enchiladas, turkey divan, turkey tetrazzini—and that’s just the first week!

Second, the turkey must fit in a standard home oven. The most common reason families find themselves staring at an over-sized bird that won’t fit? Because, for generations, wives have trusted their husbands to buy the Thanksgiving turkey.

There’s good reason for that. Women are too busy finalizing dinner details. Since Labor Day, they’ve agonized over the menu, coordinated the centerpiece, and narrowly avoided small kitchen fires while making place mats out of dried oak leaves and a glue gun.

Men, on the other hand, take a more “scientific” approach to turkey shopping. They count how many people will be at dinner, add a little extra for leftovers, then pick a bird roughly the size of a 10-gallon Shop-Vac. On the way home, they make the traditional pit stop for beef jerky to go with the beer they’ll drink while watching football.

Speaking of beer, another male-assigned Thanksgiving chore is ensuring there’s enough of it. After all, the kids are home from college, and they expect to drink their parents’ beer—free and in massive amounts. The formula for how much to buy is simple: multiply the number of college-age drinkers who won’t leave the sofa all weekend by 20.

That’s why thousands of women across America frantically call the Butterball Turkey Hotline asking, “How long does it take to cook a turkey the size of a Coach purse?”

Eventually, after days of planning, hours of cooking and three and a half minutes of eating, everyone leans back, stuffed, and declares, “I don’t care if I never eat another turkey dinner—until Christmas.”

Then, suddenly, it happens again. Across kitchens everywhere, wives scream, “Dear, you forgot to take the pumpkin pie out of the freezer!”

Moments later, a loud crash echoes from the living room as husbands, sheepishly heading for their recliners, slip on the gravy that boiled over.

And with that, across America, wives drop to their knees and offer their Thanksgiving prayer:

“Lord, please give me strength.” 

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