The Quest for the Holy Quail

2011 A.D.

Shortly after breakfast

et me get this straight,” I said. “You want to go to a town you’ve never been to, to find a guy you’ve never met, in hopes that he’s frying turkeys this year?” I tried for just the right note of ridicule. You know the one – when your eyes bulge and you laugh so hard that coffee squirts out your nose.

My friend was beyond adamant. She hadn’t had turkey in three years, and only a fried turkey would do. I can understand obsession. I’ve combed the candy aisles looking for my favorite Christmas taffies, leaping on the unsuspecting bags like a lion on a gazelle when I found them.

Still, I was not anxious to play private poultry detective. I tried distraction “The tea house is having a special Christmas Tea. We could go all out and get the Ave Maria.” Even the temptation of finger sandwiches and mini-quiches could not sway her. It was as if the heavens had opened up and God had given her a holy quest. (Cue angels blowing trumpets out their asses.)

When she started talking about getting her own turkey fryer, visions of arson investigators were dancing in my head. I would forever be labeled a polyunsaturated pyromaniac. “What are you in for?” “Molotov turkey.”

On our trip to Alvin, South Carolina, we met no black knights, and no witches were burned in the making of this quest. By some divine intervention, we found somebody who knew Travis’ mother, and were able to track down the purveyor of fried fowl.

Unfortunately, my quest was to watch the Army-Navy game. After five minutes of gluttonous debauchery, I leapt up from the table and scurried to the living room, leaving my friend with her mouth hanging open. I know I owe her tea to atone for my rudeness, but I’ll trade an Ave Maria for a Hail Mary any day.