“You’re too finicky, Monsieur Haute Société,” said Calvin. “This is all we need for a good batch of stirred-up.”

“A word that I thank God I am not familiar with.”

“It’s called stirred-up because you stir it up.” In moments Calvin had the stove hot and rancid butter melting in the frying pan. He ladled in some molasses and scraped chickpeas out of the pot, adding them to the mess. Then he stirred.

“See?” he said. “I’m stirring.”

“You are stirring side-to-side,” said Honoré. “And the mixture is going steadily down in quality. The one thing you are not doing is stirring up.”

“Ain’t English funny?” said Calvin.

“The longer I know you, the less sure I am that what you speak is English.”

“Well, hell, that’s the glory of English. You can speak it ten thousand different ways, and it’s still OK.”

“That barbarous expression! ‘O. K.’ What does this mean?”

“Oll Korrect,” said Calvin. “Making fun of people who care too much about how words get writ down.”

“Now, writing down, that makes sense. The ink flows down. The pen points down. Your hideous mixture should be called ‘stirred-down.’”

The butter-and-molasses mess was bubbling now. “Nice and hot,” said Calvin. “Want some?”

“Only to ward off imminent death.”

“This cures not just hunger but the French disease and cholera too, not to mention making mad dogs whimper and run away.”

“In France we call it the English disease.”

“That bunch of Puritans? How could they catch a disease of coition?”

“They may be pure in doctrine, but they hump like bunnies,” said Honoré. “Nine children to a family, or it’s a sign God hates them.”

“I’m a-feared I done taught you to talk substandard English, my friend.” Calvin tasted the stirred-up. It was good. The chickpeas were a little hard, and Calvin suspected that in the darkness he had inadvertently added some fresh insect flesh to the mix, but he’d had enough to drink that he cared less than he might have sober. “Polite people don’t say ‘hump.’”

“I thought that was a euphemism.”

“But it’s a coarse one. We’re supposed to get into fine homes here, but we’ll never do it if you talk like that.” Calvin proffered the spoon.

Honoré winced at the smell, then tasted it. It burned his tongue. Panting, he fanned his open mouth.

“Careful,” said Calvin. “It’s hot.”

“Thank God the Inquisition didn’t know about you,” said Honoré.

“Tastes good, though, don’t it?”

Honoré crunched up some chickpeas in his mouth. Sweet and buttery. “In a crude, primitive, savage way, yes.”

“Crude, primitive, and savage are the best features of America,” said Calvin.

“Sadly so,” said Honoré. “Unlike Rousseau, I do not find savages to be noble.”

“But they hump like bunnies!” said Calvin. In his drunken state, this was indescribably funny. He laughed until he wheezed. Then he puked into the pan of stirred-up.

“Is this part of the recipe?” asked Honoré. “The pièce de résistance?”

“It wasn’t the stirred-up made me splash,” said Calvin. “It was that vinegar you made us drink.”