We've all done it. Strolled next door or downstairs or up the street to a neighbor's house to "borrow" some forgotten ingredient ... cup of sugar, an egg, red pepper flakes, a dab of mayo, some milk. And even though we ask to "borrow" that item, we don't intend to actually return it. And, if we're the supplier, we don't expect someone to actually replace what they "borrowed." This understanding - of a minimally shared cupboard with no strings attached - is what makes a neighborhood neighborhoody.

Once I "borrowed" some pancake mix from my next door neighbors and good friends, Martha and Elaine. When I got back to my house, I was horrified to discover what I thought were mouse droppings throughout the mix. I walked back over (I mean, how could I let them blithely skip through life when their pantry was overrun with rodents) and, as kindly as I could, showed them the tainted mix. Elaine poured it into a bowl to get a better look. I recoiled. Martha looked perplexed. And then Elaine started laughing. Turns out she had combined what was left of her BLUEBERRY pancake mix and her REGULAR pancake mix. Since I was not expecting BLUEBERRIES in a box of REGULAR pancake mix, I assumed the worst - an infestation. Yep, we've chuckled over that a few times over the years.

All this brings me to the oddest "borrowing" story I believe I've ever heard. One of my father's business partners called my mom yesterday and asked if she could "borrow" her leftover turkey. I've "borrowed" a lot of things in my life - a pie crust, a jigger of brandy, and once, when I was in a premenstrual state of gastronomic hysteria, an entire container of Rocky Road ice cream - but never ever have I "borrowed" a platter of old meat.