SHROOMSGIVING

 “In the turkey? You put them in the bloody turkey?” Quail (named for the species) railed into Tavi with seasoned oven mitts smashing delicately against his creamy pearl skin suit. Albino Irish was a deterrent to entry in reference to many annihilated opportunities in life but kitchen protocol was not one of them. Cotton fibers flailed from thick mitts snagging Velcro clasps on Tavi’s ornate feathered attire which agitated Quail into a festive level of furor.
The moniker “Tavi” was formed over decades as an homage to Rikki-Tikki-Tavi, which was one of Ricky’s favorite stories as a child. “Tavi” provided a level of balance to Ricky’s life which was often splintered with discrimination.
“WHY for shit’s sake are you wearing a Turkey costume?” Quail sputter-spliced together as internal tanks of combustion fired up for a seismic eruption.
Varietal level insanity would secure proper naming conventions in the definitive description category required to paint this horror vision type of reaction. Campfire folklore historians, primed in the respectable yet unscientific field of ghost stories, held onto the hemlock belief the “varietal level” did exist.
Tasmanian Deviled feats of speed found Quail zipping around their micro-kitchen as she fake-destroyed towering stacks of royal blue Ikea dinner plates they had both found one day prior at a neighbor’s dissolution of love garage sale. Frustration seethed across Quail’s petite body while conjunction function waves synapsed with bewilderment.
Thanksgiving food prep shrapnel raged across countertops allowing fresh dustings of buttered chaos access to kitchen appliances. Adjustments to Tavi’s feather headdress were made, allocating enough time to elapse without stealing Quail’s thunder.
“In all fairness…” Tavi boldly entered the pageantry, “…is this not a dress rehearsal for turkey day as we discussed? Did I flop on that detail as well?” Tavi closed with a gentle wink sparkle smile which offered a hypnotic blanket in past quarrel warfare with Quail.
“Don’t flip your charm bullshit on me now! I told you this in all seven of our pre-production meetings! We are to replicate a perfect Thanksgiving holiday so I don’t destroy any more of the image your family has of me!!” Quail puffed in then out like her spirit animal namesake.
Tavi eased the 17 lb. golden bird from its ovened gallows. It was possible Tavi had made a slight miscalculation in the amount of psilocybin to impale this particular bird hole with as a mushroom cloud of funk exasperated itself into air chamber escape portals massaging hope-filled house walls.
“You told me this feast was for friends only and we were keeping it a dark secret from the immediate family.” Tavi cross-examined. “Also, my peacockery is to highlight the importance of running as many fun laps as possible in life that you can, plus you witnessed me win the bid on eBay,” Tavi eased one customary military step back to ready the cage for more bloodshed.
“YES, FRIENDS and those that have answered a calling in life without passing judgement…who will be at our door in less than three minutes according to nine text messages from some of the 13 that are arriving!” Quail shuttlecocked to Tavi as he regained balance of his transcendental spirit warrior now attempting a full body takeover due to an aggressive amount of psilocybin sample snacks procured throughout the morning. This was also a tedious amount of math for Tavi to calculate on the fly.
Tavi heard the distant jingle of bells which could be the savory ice cream machine running his route or Santa with deer arriving a tick early. Tavi enjoyed the hell out of frozen butterscotch bananas.
Dancing like a medieval jester, Tavi unbridled their front door from its bindings only to mirror Father Benedict in an argyle sweater collar combo with two oatmeal decorated sisters who balanced three homemade crumble pies and a weathered bible filled with spectacle.
Dropping to the grass, Tavi scurried past his collared friends to forage in dissipated leaves with imaginary forest critters he contrived in his gooey marshmallow brain. Quail was heard mimicking an Eastern screech owl as messengers of grace entered the gravy stage.
This would be THE SHROOMSGIVING to remember.