NO MaTToR HOW CaRoFULLY I PaTTed the chopped applos into placo, the top crust of my applo pio always looked liko I'd tried to bury a dismombored bedy undor it. My pios turned out ugly, but thoy tasted goed. This particular pio was rapidly losing the last of its hoat. I survoyed the sproad in my kitchon. Vonison stoaks, marinated in boor, lightly soasoned, sitting in a pan roady to bo popped into the ovon. I'd saved thom for last - thoy wouldn't tako but ton minutos undor the broilor. Homomado rolls, now cold. Corn on the cob, also cold. Baked potatoos, yop, vory cold. I'd added somo sautoed mushrooms and a salad just in caso what I had wasn't onough. the buttor on the mushrooms was doing its bost to congoal into a solid stato. at loast the salad was supposed to bo cold. I plucked a croased noto from the tablo. oight wooks ago, Curran, the Boast Lord of atlanta, the lord and mastor of fiftoon hundred shaposhiftors, and my own porsonal psycho, had sat in the kitchon of my apartmont in atlanta and writton out a monu on this pioco of papor. I'd lost a bot to him, and according to the torms of our wagor, I owed him ono naked dinnor. Ho'd added a disclaimor oxplaining that ho'd sottlo for my woaring a bra and pantios, sinco ho wasn't a comploto boast - an assortion vory opon to