She was the first girl I got up enough nerve to date after moving to a new neighborhood and high school. She was a beauty — her parents were the wealthiest in town, as indicated by the new fur coat she wore. I took her to a local diner (my parents were not wealthy).

While waiting for our warm apple pie � la mode, the waiter brought something rather hot instead; smoking, in fact.

It was all that was left of her fur coat. It seems I had hung it up over the pot-bellied stove, and it gradually simmered itself up from coat-length to stole-size. She thought it was funny. Her father did not. Nor did mine.