The witches sat in their sewing circle, stitching together skins of whatever flesh they had gathered since the Wednesday midnight meeting of the week before.
The oldest of the coven asked, “Have any of you eaten at that new spoonery, ‘The Cockroach and Cauldron?'”
Several of the knarled grotesques answered ‘yes.’
“How was it?” she continued, adding, “My sister is coming in from the East, and I’m thinking of taking her there for dinner one evening.”
“It was delicious,” one harpy said.
“What did you have?”
“Eye of Knute, with a blood Lambeau soup. Exquisite.”
“I had the Baked Bat Wing Ala Mode,” said another. “To die for.”
“And their French-fried Fingernails under Glass is remarkable,” added someone.
“I tried the Broiled Ghost, sauteed in Ectoplasm Juice,” someone on the far side of the cavern shadows said. “But I wouldn’t recommend it to anyone.”
“Why is that?” the eldest hag asked.
“Tasted like sheet,” she answered.