Coffeehouse Chronicles ...and The Great Turkey Fry

Check out the Jr Associates jumpin' off the porch, tryin' to run with the big dogs

Floyd showing off one of the birds, this one didn't get a presidential pardon.

Happy Thanksgiving, Chroniclers! Picture this: the backyard transformed into a culinary battlefield, where menfolk gather around a pot of fiercely hot oil like philosophers pondering the mysteries of life—except the only mystery is whether the turkey will explode. 

Pretty Boy Floyd and I started this tradition last year. The plan? Fry up a turkey for each family. The reality? Floyd does all the cooking while I supervise with the dedication of a foreman who’s allergic to labor. My contribution? Smoking cigars, telling stories, and passing down wisdom like, “Don’t drop a frozen bird in boiling oil unless you want to meet the fire department.” 

The HB and I reap the rewards: a golden turkey and my smug sense of accomplishment. Meanwhile, the junior associates—our two oldest grandsons—try their hand at cigar smoking with Pops and Gramps. They puff bravely for about three minutes, then abandon their sticks like forgotten homework. Youth, as they say, is wasted on the young. 

Floyd’s boy is hip deep in paramedic school, dreaming of fire trucks and heroics. (A fireman in a Blue Bloods fam? What the heck happened here?) HB Jr.’s son? Counting down to graduation and that shiny butter bar on his shoulder

. Big decisions loom, but for now, they’re mesmerized by Floyd’s tales of detective work—high-profile capers straight out of the fishwrapper. The boys lean in, eyes wide, until Floyd casually mentions his gear: a .40 cal with 21 rounds, plus enough magazines to start a small war. The junior associates glance at me, and I confess: “Back in my day, we had six-shooters plus maybe 24 more rounds. And the bad guys? They were running around with MAC-10s.” Cue their disbelief. Floyd’s practically a walking armory; I was armed like Wyatt Earp at a PTA meeting. 

We laugh, we eat, we smoke. And we wait. Because the Junior Crime Fighter? Shows up four hours late. His motto: two hours late is right on time. 

Happy Thanksgiving from the Coffeehouse Chronicles—You know what to do!  Drink ‘em if you got ‘em! 

#coffeehousechronicles