A Tofu-Free Thanksgiving

Debbie, Donna, and Deanne -- three yoga buddies spending their Thanksgiving in the company of themselves and their families, prepare a mouth-watering dinner for those who wait.

As the men spending the waning hours prior to the delicious feast gorge themselves on a semi-entertaining NFL contest, and the children play in the backyard with the energetic family dogs, Donna checks the status of the scrumptious bird as the clock ticks away the final minutes of doneness.

"Almost ready. Can't you just smell the flavor?" gleans Donna.

The others unanimously agree. The recipe Debbie excavated from her cherished Yoga Freak magazine is proving, at first hint, to be quite the success. Deanne lifts the cover from a simmering stovetop pan and takes in the scent of goodness. She sighs in delight.

"The men are going to love it. I can't wait! This is going to be the best Thanksgiving ever!"

Debbie smiles, gushing with emphatic pride, hands pressed together. "Namaste."

All gather around the dinner table, silverware and condiments in place, the wine already flowing at the distinct request of Wild Bill, husband of Deanne and known drunkard. The children sit, traditionally, at a square fold-out table to the side of the dining room, eagerly anticipating a re-fuel for another post-dinner round with the dogs. As if on cue, the three women exit the kitchen, approaching the table in unison with a feast fit for the ages, and all activity stops. Every eye in the house is now keenly focused on the star of the night, the Thanksgiving bird.

But not quite in the manner one might assume.

As Deanne presents the bird as the table centerpiece, Howie, husband of Donna, rubs his mouth in sudden confusion. "What's that.... stuff on the turkey?" The other men lean forward for a closer inspection of the strange fuzz.

Deanne giggles in delight. "It's roasted alpaca fur, silly. And, it's delicious. You'll love it."

"Excuse me? Alpaca what?", asked a shocked Mitch, husband of Debra and fellow lover of yoga. But just as the question is asked, it's lone answer slams into his brain like an asteroid to a planet. "What the fuck! I thought that was a JOKE!!!"

But as Donna politely asks Mitch to lower his tone, Howie and Bill grow increasingly restless. They can't remember the time Mitch last blew his top. "What joke? What's with the alpaca fur? And what's that funny smell?", growls a surly Bill. An incensed Mitch is all too happy to fill his buddies in on the details, as disgusting as they may be.

"It's a fucking Yoga turkey!!! A YOGA TURKEY!!!!"

"Smells like cooking sherry and.... um.... hay?", adds a befuddled Howie.

"It's the stuffing. A 72-grain spackle with puree of fermented raisin and splinters of bamboo!" answers a twitching Mitch.

Bill can't contain himself. "Holy shit! You bitches trying to KILL us??"

"It's delicious and nutritious!", as Donna defends both herself and her sisters of cuisine. "My mouth is watering just thinking about it. Yum!!!"

Howie lifts the lid of the dish next to the turkey. Floating in a purplish stew are ten turkey feathers.

Mitch grabs Howies arm. "Don't touch that! It's turkey feather marinated in guarana, algae and prune juice. It'll kill you on contact".

A crying Deanne: "No it won't! You don't know what you're talking about. It's yummy and good for you. Children in India eat it!! Mmmmm, delicious!!!" She turns to the children, and in her best Stepford Wives impersonation: "Here, child. Won't you have some delectable Yoga Turkey, with a side of mashed Rafflesia root and turkey feather gravy?"

The mortified children sit silently stunned, and in Deanne's increasingly warped mind, silence is as good as 'yes'.

But as the three turn toward the hungry children, the men leap from their seats and rush to counter the Yoga Offensive. They grab the children as easily as rag dolls, except for the inebriated Bill, who whiffs at his first attempt, cold-cocking his child with a stiff forearm.

This "delicious" meal will never see the stomachs of these children.

"C'mon," exclaims Mitch. "I think Taco Bell is still open!"

As the six depart, dragging the seventh, the women stand amidst a feast fit for an army, now simply a battalion of three. The longer they proudly hover atop their masterwork of cuisine, however, the more they begin to realize:

"Shit. Were we really going to EAT this garbage?", questions Donna. She turns to Deanne for an answer, but Deanne no longer stands beside her. Sticking her finger into the gravy to sample the goodness, she's since queasily darted to the bathroom and is currently killing it with the neighborhood sewer system. Donna and Debbie glance at each other.

Suddenly, Taco Bell, is sounding mighty good.

So is Pilates.