The Shiner Bock, the yams, and yours truly arrive at Mahvy's for the Fourth Annual Two-Turkey Throwdown/Video Fest for Beatniks, Aging Hippies, and Other Orphans at about 1200 hours. He had said we'd eat at 1400, so I thought I'd go on over and see if I could help with any last-minute stuff.

Alice stood me up, of course. She is renowned for that. You must approach making plans with Alice from the standpoint that of *course* she is not really going to go through with them. Then when she does, it's a pleasant surprise. The expected cancellation call came about 1000.

I come in, put my purse and camera on the floor in the corner of the dining alcove, and Bama goes out to the car to bring in my food. MacBeth is there, feelin' kinda puny. She's been home sick all week with some kind of sinus-tonsil infection. She says she's feeling better than she did and she thinks she can hang with us for a while.

I look at her sweet face, obviously suffering, and I am sad that she feels so bad and also a little sad knowing that Mae Ella's famous blackberry cobbler will not be a part of this Thanksgiving. Not only is Mae Ella MacBeth too puny for the task, but Mahvy severely pruned the berry vines early in the year when he installed a trellis, so there aren't any blackberries for the cobbler.

Mahvy is bustling about, checking the turkey and browning his delectable jambalaya dressing. Mahvy hails from New Orleans and he loves to cook. Need I say more? Scrumptuous.

Bama's out back, readying his super-dooper space age deep fryer for the second turkey. Where is the second turkey? Well, it's supposed to arrive at some point. Oh, okay.

Neal staggers into the kitchen, his hair still wet from the shower. He's just awakened. He putzes around, looking for this, looking for that, creating a kind of strange culinary dance with Mahvy, who is busily tending his cooking chores. I look at MacBeth across the table, take a swig of my beer, and ask, "What's Neal up to?"

"He's making blueberry pies," she says.

"Like, *now* he's making blueberry pies?"

"Yeah." She looks at me, one eyebrow raised.

Norma and Brian arrive. I don't know them. Have never met them before. Norma is a natural beauty with creamy milk chocolate skin and expressive dark eyes, eyes that catch the light and reflect deep pools of merriment and mischief. Brian is very tall and very friendly. At first I think that Brian and Norma are together but I eventually discover they only happened to walk in the door at the same time. They bring chips and dips and some kind of veggies that need cooking. There are now four people in the long, narrow kitchen doing their thang.

Neal is ready to start making the dough. There is no rolling pin. The phone rings. It's Sheila, wanting Neal to drive to her place and pick her up. She's ready to come over now. Sheila rides a bicycle everywhere she goes, so when she has a payload someone has to go get her. Neal says okay, he'll be there directly, and snags MacBeth's backup wine bottle to use for the rolling pin. I take a slug off my beer and smile to myself. At least that part of the tradition is being maintained.

Nancy arrives with a new boyfriend named Ernie and another friend, Rebecca. I've never met Rebecca and Ernie before. They seem real nice. Ernie is immediately your best friend. The man has never met a stranger. And they bring food which is already *cooked*. Imagine that.

"You ready for a beer, Youngblood?", Bama yells from the patio.

"Ready!"

A Shiner Bock appears at my elbow. The dead one disappears. I toast MacB across the table. "You're doing a fine job with that boy," I tell her.

Neal leaves to go get Sheila. MacBeth and I hang at the dining table with Norma, Nancy, Rebecca, and Ernie. The yams are sitting on the table in front of Norma. They are wrapped in a towel to keep them warm. Norma keeps leaning on them, folding her arms across the top of the casserole dish. It just feels like a towel to her. MacB tells her she's laying in the food. Norma jumps up, embarrassed, apologizing. We laugh.

Pretty soon Nancy winds up in that same chair. She plops a dish of potato chips down on top of the yams. I move it. Neal returns with Sheila, who brings more grocery sacks. Sheila's going to make little tiny cornbread muffins for us. Yum. Another cook in the kitchen. Now Neal is looking for pie plates. MacBeth is telling him where to look. She is a former resident of the house, so she knows where everything is.

I light another cigarette. Nancy is telling us about Thanksgivings of yore, back when she was a child. In her reverie she leans forward and puts both elbows in the yams.

"er ... Nance, darlin', those are yams you've got your elbows in," I say.

"Oh, my gosh!" She jumps up, embarrassed, apologizing. I consider going to Mahvy's Mac and printing out a sign:

YAMS DISGUISED AS FOLDED TOWEL

The door to the garage opens and Dreeker is here with the second turkey. Bama beams, a big ceegar firmly clamped in the corner of his mouth. Now there is much discussion over how long it will take the oil to heat and what temperature they should use and how long to fry that sucker. It is all very scientific and my eyes start to glaze over. So do MacBeth's. We take our alcohol and escape out the patio door to poolside.

Mahvy's back yard is really beautiful. When he's not building spaceships, he likes to landscape. He has turned the back yard into a gorgeous botanical garden with a swimming pool in the center. We walk around to the table and take a seat. I remember the first time I ever saw that back yard and am moved at the transformation Mahvy has wrought. When he bought that house, the back yard had known twenty years as a junk storage area.

MacBeth and I are soon joined by Nancy, Ernie and Rebecca. It's cold out there, cold and damp. I am concerned that MacBeth is exposing herself to the weather but she assures me she's fine. I'm cold all the way to my bones. The sun tries to come out but it can't quite break through the cloud cover. Bama brings me another beer.

Rebecca is an art teacher, about my age, with lovely long, blonde hair. She wears a lot of cool jewelry, too, lots of silver and turquoise. She moved to the Bay Area from Montrose about seven months ago but she can't hang with it down here. She's moving back tomorrow. I tell her no, I wouldn't think you'd be able to breathe among the rocket scientists and outlaws of the Bay Area. You are an alien in an alien land. She laughs.

Bama and Dreeker are frying the shit out of the second turkey only a few yards from us. The smell wafts over and my mouth starts to water. I am really hungry by now. Bama is telling us about how you marinate those turkeys before you fry 'em. That turkey's got all kinds of spices and flavorings pumped into him. Mahvy yells out the back door that it's time to eat.

We go in to get our food. Neal is busily patting rolled dough into pie pans. Mahvy's in there with him, serving up the first turkey. Sheila is pulling cornbread muffins out of the oven. There is food *everywhere*. Mahvy gives me some beautiful slices of white meat and I add some jambalaya dressing, green beans, and a little gravy. Mahvy makes wonderful gravy. And I had to have a helping of yams, of course.

The yams were the best ever, by the way. I tried something a little different this year. I dolloped the top with pecans and butter and then sprinkled a little whisper of cinnamon and sugar over that. Just a whisper. Put them in the oven and baked them, then took 'em out and added the marshmallows and more pecans. Another whisper. Then back into the oven for a few minutes until the marshmallows were melted and nicely browned. Marvelous.

Full plates in hand, we go back to our poolside table where we eat and drink and toast one another. Mahvy joins us. We clink our glasses and rave about the food and how good it is to be together once again. We hear a major "CRASH!" happen inside the house. Something has bitten the dust. The second turkey is now ready. We go back inside long enough to get a sample of the fried turkey. Neal is spooning blueberries into pie pans. A lone store-bought pumpkin pie sans whipping cream has appeared on the table amongst the numerous casserole dishes.

More people have arrived. I don't know any of them. They do not introduce themselves. They are sprawled all over the living room, intent upon watching some ball game or other.

I look around for the little cornbread muffins. The two I had were really delicious and I figure I can stand a couple more.

"Where are the little cornbread muffins?", I ask Bama.

"er ... well ...," he says, "I accidentally knocked 'em off the counter, broke the bowl and everything. They're gone. That wasn't your bowl I broke, was it?"

"No, sweetie, it wasn't my bowl," I say, wondering if it was *really* necessary to throw all those wonderful little muffins away just because they'd hit the floor. The floor looked pretty clean to me.

Back to the gang at the pool. The fried turkey is wonderful. I don't really have much stomach room left by this time but I make a valiant effort to hold as much as I can. We finish eating and the smokers light up. Bama comes by and takes all our empty plates, clearing the table. MacBeth is a real positive influence on this boy, yessirree. He brings me another beer.

We drink and we talk and we smoke. I am beginning to shiver. The sun is still trying to come out but the clouds are too thick. Cold to the bone and stuffed to the gills, I go back in the house for a pit stop. While I am there it seems like an auspicious time to head home to Rock & Roll Heaven. I gather my purse and my camera, exit through the garage door, get in the Dream and slip away. I am renowned for my unheralded departures.

Neal is putting the pies in the oven.