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SEND your gingerbread over the waters and in a few days it will come home. This paraphrase is not in jest, but confirms what Koheleth has already stated -- it happened, and an old New England oddity surfaces again to prove something or other. Sue and Carl Mueller live on the other side of Back River from us. Half a mile over the water, maybe; a little too far for reading fine print but we look into each other's dooryard, and if I leave my cellar light on they call to suggest I turn it off.

Well, Sue heard that my cook and our daughter had gone by choo-choo from Montreal to Vancouver to aid in the resurgence of the Canadian dollar, and she suggested I come for supper. I thought that was a sound plan, and I arrived just as she brought the poultry from the oven.

Pertinent to this narrative is that the Muellers moved to Maine from New Jersey a few years back, and accordingly would not be aware of Angel Gingerbread. Anybody indigenous to New England would know about it. Angel Gingerbread is well seasoned in down east lore, even if most of its fans have forgotten how it became so. Anyway, Carl deployed the chicken, Sue added the vegetables, and we tucked away a genteel sufficiency until we had lost our appetites. Then, Sue brought on a delicious gingerbread, to be anointed before ingestion with a lemony sauce. During ingestion, I lifted my voice in a joyous paean and added the remark, ``And it's got ginger in it!''

The Muellers considered me in sorrow, grieved that my mentality had fuzzed until I would cheer ginger in gingerbread, so I assured them that my remark was by no means odd and uncalled for. Gingerless gingerbread, I told them, is quite all right, and I repeated (again) the much-told story:


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