Well, let's go back about half an hour before that. Lori and I are talking about what to eat, and she says, "Don't eat this." She holds up a box of cinnamon graham crackers. "They're old and stale." We then talk about what a bad idea cinnamon graham crackers are. It is NOT what you want to put smores on, or any type of cheese.
So, back to dinner. I look through the fridge and decide to go path of least resistance and do the simple pasta dish. I heat the water. I mince up some garlic and set the herbs out that I want. I open the packet of pasta.
I get a strong whiff of cinnamon.
Weird. I sniff various things. My nose is untrustworthy at best - general allergies compounded with seasonal allergies compounded by 2 cats now living with us - so I shrugged it off, and hoped that this wasn't the first symptom of a brain tumor or something.
So, I cooked the pasta. I heated the oil, got the herbs sizzling, dumped the pasta in, added cheese. Done. I dish out some pasta for myself. Add some more grated cheese.
That's a damn persistent tumor.
Lori got her pasta. She tried it.
"Hey Lori, does your pasta taste like cinnamon?"
"YES!" It is, she concludes after some discussion, the power of suggestion. My brain made a connection between the pasta and the crackers and then made me taste cinnamon. I mentioned it to Lori, and then she tasted cinnamon. It was, for a (very small) mass delusion, persistent in the face face of reality, and I ended up having to pile quite a bit more cheese on to drown the taste out a little.
Then Linda comes down. She looks in the pan, tastes a little bit.
"What did you do to this?" she asks. "What did you put in it?"
"Do you taste a hint of, say, cinnamon?" Lori asks.
Well, there's a brand of pasta we're unlikely to buy again...