When we were in Grand Marais, we pulled up at a cafe at the same time as a pick-up truck. Two couples, probably in their 60s, jumped out and hustled in so they could get ahead of us. In their haste, one of them got left behind.

The other three descended on the bakery case, pressing against it with their girth. It was 10:00 in the morning but there wasn’t much left in the way of baked goods. As they barked out possible orders to the Eastern European help the fourth member of their group straggled in and his wife yelled at him.

“What do you want? What do you want? What do you want?” she said. “Cherry Danish? Caramel roll? Doughnut?”

“Cherry Danish!” he said. “Caramel roll. Doughnut.”

The other couple chimed in, “Cherry Danish, caramel roll, doughnut, nut roll, muffin!” like a chant.

Cherry Danish, caramel roll, doughnut, nut roll, muffin. CherryDanishcaramelrolldoughnutnutrollmuffin.

It was like this:

We were lucky to get out of there with the last two caramel rolls and our lives.