Frank's molars are covered in cake. He's eating enough 
for ten and coming right back again. Tables are cleared 
in his wake. 'How does he do it?' they ask with a laugh. 
Skinny as copper rail, something beyond the pale, it 
makes terrible math. What did they say on President's Day 
when he made those muffins and ate them all up? He 
consumed all that stuff as if it was nothing, nothing at 
all. They all knew that their Frank could cook, but it 
was his appetite  his hunger was out of sight  that 
caused them all to look. He'd throw a potluck and they 
all would come. The dishes he would prepare, assembled 
with utmost care, would strike them dumb. But the way he 
would eat, then repeat and repeat, on some cornbread 
stuffing? He ate it all up. He consumed all that stuff as 
if it was nothing, nothing at all. There is a grin on his 
face. He's eyeing the plates in a pause for collecting 
his thoughts. He picks up fork number two  all of the 
salad is gone. It's time to move on to the triumph of the 
main course, and they silently anticipate what he's going 
to do.