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“Martha, these are NOT monkey brains!” howls the Pickle, and brandishes a spoonful of tapioca as proof.

“No, they aren’t,” she agrees, “and my name is Moriah. Please put your spoon down.”

He does, scowling. “I’m a pickle,” he adds hopefully.

“Yes, you are.” Moriah pats him on the head and leans over to help Mrs. Pursey, who has transposed her own pudding with a shoe.

“Why do we even serve tapioca?” asks Yurt, breezing by with the dirty-dish trolley.

“Cheap, filling, lots of carbs,” sighs Moriah, at which point the Pickle, bright-eyed, stabs his spoon into her skull.