There is a shallow dish of little plastic Half 'n Half containers at our booth in the restaurant. Pär picks up one of the little containers and places it on the table. He makes it march to and fro, hopping up onto my plate and then standing on its head.

"Remember a few years ago, the last time we were in an IHOP," he says, "and you squeezed one of these half 'n halfs --"

"I squeezed it? You squeezed it!"

"No, I squeezed it first, but then you were trying to show that you were all rowdier than me..."

Speechless, I can only gasp my indignation.

Pär continues in his reminiscing. "And then you pounded it on the table and the half 'n half burst open and exploded milk and cream all over the window." He pauses. "Hm, maybe that was me, actually."

"Oh, you think maybe?" Without further comment, I open my purse, take out my notebook, and write down the above exchange. Pär grins and eats pancakes.

"So it was you," I say, as I finish writing. "You admit it."

"I accept the guilt," he says calmly, "but in my mind it is still you squirting half 'n half all over the window whether you actually did it or not."

"Fine. I know who's the real half 'n half spaz."

"It's happening again!" Pär exclaims, turning a little plastic bucket of half 'n half over in his fingers. He throws it back into its bowl and stares hard at it. "Urge to squeeze the half 'n half until it bursts!"

"That you can have this urge every time you fondle a half 'n half thingie, and still have the gall to blame me for that incident --"

"You know, I think it was you," he says.