“Don't start,” he warned.“What?” she said, grinning. “I'm sure all the big, bad trappers have a bun-bun in their houses.”
“I really don't think I need buns of steel. I'd be happy with buns of cinnamon.”
“No one said a word; it was as if they were waiting for me to retract my question. Jan's hand found mine and held it."What the hell is this? A wake?" My grandpa came out of the house carrying a tray of buns.”
“I got in trouble for fondling buns,” he whispered.”
“Sports section and a sticky bun. Know what that means.”
“I have an apple that thinks its a pear. And a bun that thinks it’s a cat. And a lettuce that thinks its a lettuce.""It’s a clever lettuce, then.""Hardly," she said with a delicate snort. "Why would anything clever think it’s a lettuce?""Even if it is a lettuce?" I asked."Especially then," she said. "Bad enough to be a lettuce. How awful to think you are a lettuce too.”