Kat's party this weekend was a success, but there's no news in that. Holding parties is what Kat and Eric do; they're like a living katamari, rolling along the streets and sweeping people up into a gigantic get-together. At any of their given parties you can find an odd mixture of Eric's nerd friends, Kat's nursing friends, the people in the neighborhood, and the friends of the people who've been attending the Meyer parties for so long that they warrant their own invite.

At these parties, I do my best to socialize with new people, but inevitably wind up socializing with the same crowd of nerds. And in this case, I was hanging out with Jim, his wife Genevieve, Karla, Eric, and my wife.

"That reminds me," said Jim (which is how all new topics get started at a Meyer party, since they are never-ending streams of conversation). "Did you hear about the school superintendent from my home town? There was a scandal."

"Do tell," we said, leaning forward. (We do so love gossip.)

"Apparently, he was having an affair with one of the board members. She made him ladylocks - they're like ladyfingers, except they take a special ladylocks mold and a lot more time to make, so that must have been an all-day affair just baking them - and drugged them so he fell asleep. Then, when he was unconscious, she set his bed on fire."

"So what happened?"

"Amazingly enough, he survived. The whole place burned down, though."

"Wow," said Karla. "What did he do to piss her off like that?  I wish we knew more about their relationship."

"Yeah," said I. "I just want to know who's overreacting."

They burst into laughter, but I wasn't trying to be funny. "Hey," I protested. "I'm serious! I mean, I'm not saying it's okay to drug someone's ladylocks and set them on fire, but I might understand if it was a really bad breakup. Any idea what he did?"

"None at all," Jim said. "I only heard it on the news. But it's the ladylocks that got me; if you're gonna drug somebody, there has to be an easier way. Put in his milk. Don't spend eight hours in the kitchen assembling tarts."

"That's not the problem I have with it," I said. "I wanna know where she got the recipe.  Is there some 'Baking with Poison' cookbook? Because I'd be afraid the heat of the oven would destroy the tranquilizer."

"That's true," Karla said. "And it might taste funny, too."

"What better proof of premeditation?" I cried. "I can just see her in the kitchen, baking up a batch, squirting stuff in, nibbling... 'Nope, I can still taste it.' And then she passes out. She bakes up another batch, tastes it... 'Too sugary.' Passes out. Maybe she was crazy. Eric, go look up 'Cooking with Poison' to see if there's something online."

"I don't even know how to make a Mickey Finn," Gini said.

Eric came back, laptop in hand. "Okay, found the original news article. Looking up 'Cooking with Poison'.... Nothing.  Although if you look up Ladylocks in Google Images, you get this picture of a woman standing next to some car locks."

"Have you tried looking up the drug and the pastry?"

"Hang on," Eric said, looking at the news article again.  "Oh, she used Temazepam. That sounds like a pastry itself! You could tell him it was in the ladylocks and he wouldn't question it. 'Eat these. They have Temazepam.' 'Is that like marzipan?' 'Oh, sure.' "

"You know," I said. "When he was in the bed, half-conscious and burning, he probably was thinking, 'A few months from now, a bunch of people will look back at this and laugh their ass off.' "

"Probably," Karla agreed. "That reminds me...."

(Tell me I'm full of it)