Talk to the Popover

It doesn't always matter what you say or think or even know. It doesn't always matter what the crowd says or thinks or knows. It doesn't even matter what the media says or thinks or knows. Sometimes you just have to talk to the popover.

Saturday night was a typical late September bay night. The wind was blowing in off the ocean, bringing with it wisps of fog and a salty, somewhat fishy smell. It wasn't unpleasant, but it was there. I don't know that anyone else sensed that something was amiss, but I did. I kept it to myself. My wife was having a good time browsing through the exotic items at one of the gift shops, and my daughter and her friend were in giggle mode, finding almost everything funny.

Even later on, when the fog bank started to make its move on the beach, everything seemed fine. Oh, the surf was definitely up, and the waves were twice their normal size; the sandpipers were not making their usual pre-sunset rounds; the gulls were nowhere to be seen. But everything else seemed normal, and we packed everyone back into the car and headed back up the twisting, turning mountain road into town.

The cafe was unusually quiet for a Saturday night. Quiet in the sense that this, the most popular restaurant in Point Reyes Station was merely almost full. We had expected an hour wait, but were seated after only ten minutes. Our waitress came over promptly and took our order, and was back with the basket of popovers before we knew it.

And that's where the trouble started. There, at the bottom of the basket, was the Popover from Hell. Beelzebiscuit himself. The Scone of Satan, if you will. I set it aside, to assure that it was isolated from the rest of the food. I even took several pictures to make sure we had sufficiently documented this manifestation of Mephistophiles. We continued our meal without further incident, and I packed the dollop of demon into a paper bag for the ride home. My intent was to sell the Popover from Hell on e-Bay.

And I would have, but our tenacious tabby, Cato -- he of the inquisitive streak -- thought that the Brimstone Biscuit would make a tasty treat, and he proceeded to munch on the popover's horns.

Bad cat.