In an age when New Yorkers outsource everything, this Thanksgiving they’re getting back to basics — by slaughtering their own turkey.

Matt Wilkinson’s Pilgrim for a Day “class” at the Hard Cider Homestead in Ringoes, NJ, involves blood up to your elbows — and sobbing is permitted.

Yes, people pay for this fowl play.

Wilkinson, a 58-year-old turkey whisperer of 20 years, tells The Post he leads a handful of New Yorkers to the slaughter each year.

The “foodies,” typically aged 30 to 40, “want to get better connected to where their food comes from,” he says. Some are inspired by a grandparent who did it back in Italy. Others are urban corporate types looking for a release.

But few expect what the process actually entails.

“A turkey is a fairly dangerous animal to capture,” warns Wilkinson, who’s witnessed feisty fowl — which vary in weight from 20 to 42 pounds — go into fight-or-flight mode with a shaky slaughterer.

“When the bird realizes it’s going to be cooked up, it’s exceptionally strong. If those wings hit you, it can cause some serious damage.” He recalls one cavalier student “getting a good gash on his forehead.”

Still, the gratification is worth the battle scars.

“We’re hugging at the end of the class. I can’t tell you how emotional this is. You’re taking them by the hand and guiding them through a discovery they weren’t sure they could do. They’re eternally grateful.”

Wilkinson describes the two-hour or so class — at $50 a pop, excluding the cost of the bird, which can crack $150 — as a “ wild roller coaster.”

“It’s exceptionally tactile and very visceral,” he says. “Clothes are going to get compromised. Don’t lick your lips or laugh at jokes because you’re going to get something in your mouth you don’t want. It’s a dirty job.”

But there’s pathos amidst the gore.

“We talk a lot about respect, how the bird lived its life and what the purpose of its life is — to be food, not a pet,” he says. “How does one respect the dignity of the bird and turn it into food? They wrestle with that process.”

Wilkinson helps students pick out their bird on his five-acre farm, use a wire to hook it at the ankle and hold the back of its wings so it doesn’t wriggle out.

Then it’s onto the processing — the scalding 149-degree tank to loosen their feathers, then the plucker and a table to break down the bird — and the really queasy part.

The head of the turkey is pulled through the bottom of a cone as students wield a knife with a 3-inch blade to slice both arteries under the beak. But not too deep of a cut, lest they risk hitting a nerve, causing the bird to violently shake and potentially damage and bruise the wings.

“They feel the blood trickle down their forearms, they feel the bird struggling,” Wilkinson says. “They feel the heat of the bird inside its cavity to know its dead. I can’t emphasize how intense it is.”

For mom of two Steffani Shoop, it’s worth it to bring home her hand-slaughtered turkey from the farm, rather than ShopRite.

The high school biology teacher from Hillsborough, NJ, who’s never hunted anything before, admits she doesn’t know what to expect.

“I know there’s no gun involved,” the 38-year-old says. “I want to be able to say thank you to this poor creature and end its life in a respectful manner.”

She takes in the magnitude of the deed. “I’m going to be the one to end that animal’s life and take it through the entire process: de-feathering it, cleaning it and eating it. It’s a very powerful thing.”

Her biggest fear? Going through with it. Wilkinson says no one’s ever chickened out — but one puked afterward. (He admits students are one-timers — “I’ve never had a repeat.”)

As her Thanksgiving feast for 12 nears, Shoop hasn’t told anyone about the origins of their bird, lest they think she’s, uh, cuckoo.

“Hopefully [it’s] the best turkey you’ve ever eaten. I think there’s going to be a huge gravity behind this Thanksgiving. It’s going to be extra special. It speaks to what the holiday is supposed to be: thoughtful times, where you contemplate on life and family, and part of that is death.”

For other suburbanites, slaughtering is simply “exhilarating.” Last year, Mike (who asked that his last name be withheld to avoid retaliation from “PETA-types”) was the hero of his 16-person feast.

“I didn’t think I would slaughter anything,” says the 53-year-old from Flemington, NJ. “Doing this made me feel alive, not being so far down the food chain, grabbing it in a store. You can’t really appreciate it until you’re in the great outdoors doing it yourself.”

Being a pilgrim for a day is “perfect. It brings you back to where we were at,” says Mike, who admits he was pretty sore the day after contending with the formidable fowl. “There’s beauty in that.”

Plus, he says it was the best bird he’s ever eaten. “Delicious — there’s no comparison [to a frozen bird]. There’s more flavor, taste, texture. It’s completely off the charts.”

It’s a dubious claim that Wilkinson chalks up to the emotion of the moment: “Is it the taste of the turkey, or the experience of bringing the turkey to that point?”

The best part for the farmer is Thanksgiving Day, when the texts pour in.

“I’ll get pictures of them behind their turkeys . . . It reminds me of a woman who just gave birth. They’re so overjoyed holding their child,” he says. “You go into it with trepidation. But you come out on the other side with something tangible — a child, or turkey. You look like a mess, but you’re overjoyed.”