In my tiny ass hometown, back when I was a little sailor, there was only one barbecue place in town, and it was an ancient, decrepit building owned by an even more ancient black man named Fred who made the sweetest meat you've ever eaten.
The business was something of a marvel. Should you choose to eat here, the only source of beverage was a 1940s Coke vending machine, for which the bottles must be returned without exception. There was a small b/w tv set, that only received one channel and badly at that, only half of the dining area was actually lit, and the walls were plastered with presidential calendars dating back through most of the 20th century. He never took down the old one, he just put a new one up next to the old one.
Regardless, one year, before thanksgiving my brother and I had noticed a large turkey in the freezer chest at home, only to find it missing a few days before the big event. When we asked what happened to it, our mother told us she gave it to Fred to smoke.
Now, my brother and I frequently snuck out back to smoke a little holiday cheer ourselves, but we were puzzled. Surely not even Fred would smoke a fucking bird? I mean I'd heard that turkey contains chemicals that make you sleepy and I suppose combusting that would probably get you high as fuck, but come on Fred, that's our goddamn dinner you're toking on.
I guess in the end Fred was grateful for our generosity, maybe our turkey really did get him stoned off his old ass, because on thanksgiving he brought us a pretty fucking delicious bird to replace the one he smoked, all cooked up sweet and much nicer than how my mother usually did it.
Fred was a cool guy. Wherever you are Fred, I hope you're smokin' a fat bird for me.