In the back yard sits a solid, 1.5′ cube of cement. It was here when I moved in and will be there when I move out. (I don’t like to touch cement, the texture reminds me of dry chicken salad.)
At the end of the week, sitting next to the cube of cement is a delicious, freshly-baked fruit pie. Sometimes a biscuit tray. Never any sauces, nor or any desired.
Neighbors suspected an elf family lived inside the cube. But county workmen and their steroscopes concluded that it’s solid all the way through.
Between you and me, though, I don’t like to eat the pies anymore. They all taste like purple ink.