I sometimes imagine starting posts with “In which…,” as in “In which we stuff the washer full of clothes and hope for the best,” though I think the format is derived from Winnie the Pooh (ther Pooh, if you are a fan of the original). This was a weekend for “In which we discover nasty things in our mouth.”

Number one: lunch. I shun chain restaurants for many reasons, but here’s a new one: undercooked chicken. Yikes. Exene Cervenka once wrote a poem about a cup of minestrone and a piece of pie being OK to order in any city, and there’s logic in that. Salad with “grilled” chicken should be shunned. The entire meal was taken care of–mine, Mr S’s and young Mr S’s–but it should never come that. Lesson learned? Keep driving, till you find a better place. Or eat a bigger breakfast.

Number two: Whale’s Tale Pale Ale. Tastes like MBTA train car cleaner and salt. Just say no. I tried Grey Lady Ale, and, well, enh. A little too after-tasty for me, but I prefer pale ale, so what the heck? No. Epic beer fail, down the drain, tasted like the T smells.

Number three: best of the bunch, blueberry pie. Recipe courtesy of Cook’s Illustrated. I didn’t have the tapioca to add, so I used cornstarch. Accept no substitutes, use the tapioca (I assume). I did not, but I follow the recipe in every other regard. I ended up with delicious but runny pie. Not excessively runny, but not set up enough that I’m convinced to switch from the easier combine berries with sugar and flour and bake method. Fortunately, it’s blueberry season and birthday season and I can try again.

And blueberry pie led to a stain on my favorite gingham blouse, and the situation in which we stuff the washer and hope for the best. Still, best thing I ate all weekend.