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Guest Laarell

Turkey Day, III (One-Hundred Twenty Days, Pt. VII)

OOC - Yeah, yeah, I know it's late this year.




Day One Hundred-One






"And where, pray tell, do I find a mold for making a turkey shape out of gagh?"


Laarell shrugged. "You're a smart Horta. Try the grocery around the corner."


"They're not going to have one," said Kahrak. "Did you try shaping it yourself, with a knife?"


"Good idea. You can use your mechanical arm."


Thirty minutes later


"The jolon berries are rotten."


Laarell stared at the little plastic container, then wide-eyed at Kahrak. "They can't be."


"I told you earlier -- buying them out of season and having to get them shipped in..."


"They can't be rotted. What are we going to use for cranberry-substitute, then?"




Laarell frowned. "I refuse. Go see if the corner grocery has canned jolons.


Kahrak grumbled all the way to the door.


An hour later


Laarell sniffed the brown roots on the counter, and frowned deeply. "These rot-roots aren't rotten."


"They have to be," Kahrak groaned. "You said they were in season!"


"They are. But they weren't left below ground long enough to rot." She muttered a foul oath in unbridled Klingon.


"I'm not going to the grocery again."


"Yes, yes you are. Because we still need the jolon substitute you couldn't find last time. Get the damned cranberries if you need, but we need something to stuff gagh with."


Forty minutes later


Kahrak's tinny voice was growing hysterical. "I'm telling you, Laarell. All they have are human Thanksgiving foods.


Laarell looked at the mess of dying gagh on the counter, and almost whimpered. "It won't congeal."


"I couldn't find any of the other fruit, either. The closest they had were onions."


"But... but... it's already seventeen-hundred! I'm starving!"


Kahrak sighed, his little metal hand reached out, and the gagh went in the 'cycler.




"We," Kahrak said, "are getting takeout for you, and I'm going to run home and get granite crumbles."




"No arguing. Thanksgiving will be takeout and granite this year. Besides, we need energy for packing tomorrow and traveling the day after."


"Tough love, little Hortan friend?"


"No, dear, just love. You weren't made to be a chef."

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