In the Thanksgiving photo from 2005, I’m flanked by friends old and new as I tentatively slice into a gigantic roast turkey. We’re standing at the counter in a tiny New York City studio apartment. I’m sweaty and focused. It’s the moment of truth.

The kind man working at the grocery store in Harlem, where I bought ingredients for the dinner, had given me precise instructions. He said his wife roasted a turkey for church nearly every Sunday. Buoyed by that thought, I wrote down what he said on a piece of paper. Put melted butter over the skin, cover tightly, let it rest, don’t panic...