Frank's molars are covered in cake. He's eating enough for ten and coming right back again. Tables are cleared in his wake. "How does he do it?" they ask with a laugh. Skinny as copper rail, something beyond the pale, it makes terrible math. What did they say on President's Day when he made those muffins and ate them all up? He consumed all that stuff as if it was nothing, nothing at all.

They all knew that their Frank could cook, but it was his appetite — his hunger was out of sight — that caused them all to look. He'd throw a potluck and they all would come. The dishes he would prepare, assembled with utmost care, would strike them dumb.

But the way he would eat, then repeat and repeat, on some cornbread stuffing? He ate it all up. He consumed all that stuff as if it was nothing, nothing at all.

There is a grin on his face. He's eyeing the plates in a pause for collecting his thoughts. He picks up fork number two — all of the salad is gone. It's time to move on to the triumph of the main course, and they silently anticipate what he's going to do.