I knew a couple in Wiscasset, parents of a college chum. The mother, Annzie, was a rich girl from CT who'd grown up with servants all her life. She married Bill right out of Bryn Mawr, and the newlyweds sailed off on Bill's boat for a honeymoon on the Maine Coast. For their first wedded meal Annzie decided she'd cook Bill a pair of lobsters. She'd never cooked a meal in her life, but how hard could that be? You just boil them until they're done. She searched the galley for a proper pot, but couldn't find one, and so she settled on a coffee percolator, stuffed the two lobsters in tails first, and put them on to boil.

After they'd had a few cocktails on deck, Annzie checked on the lobsters and decided they were done. She proudly served Bill his lobster. Imagine his surprise when the poor creature crawled off the plate, dragging its cooked red tail behind it!

Bill never tired of telling this story, even when he and Annzie were quite advanced in years. The problem was, he said, that Annzie's cooking never improved. He wasn't kidding. I once saw her cut a tube of cookie dough into slices for canapes and serve them to her guests.

No, cooking wasn't Annzie's strong suit, but she was a brilliant conversationalist, a talent which is equally important. She and Bill are both gone now, and I miss them.