There was a morning fire by the wing, and a frying pan balanced over it. "You're cooking something, Don! You know, I've never seen you cook anything. What you got?"
"Pan-bread," he said matter-of-factly. "The one last thing that I want to do in your life is show you how this is done."
He cut two pieces with his pocket knife and handed me one. The flavor is still with me as I write . . . the flavor of sawdust and old library paste, warmed in lard.
"What do you think?" he said.
"Don . . ."
"The Phantom's Revenge," he grinned at me. "I made it with plaster." He put his part back in the pan. "To remind you, if ever you want to move somebody to learn, do it with your knowing and not with your pan-bread, OK?"
"NO! Love me, love my pan-bread! It's the staff of life, Don!"
Illusions, by Richard Bach.