Cuissade, Pompier, Baby

There was the issue of the pepper mills. The Obama bust that dispensed fine black grinds from its nostrils. The Native American head packed with red peppercorns, its bared teeth square like a horse’s. Sharin had seen kitchen walls hidden in decades of souvenir spoons, guest rooms hijacked by porcelain dolls peering soullessly from Victorian-style perambulators, but she had never seen anything like this.

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