Stephen Sondheim wrote a musical in the late '70s called "Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street." It's a macabre show based on an old Victorian pennydreadful called "A String of Pearls"; set in London, it's all about madness, innocence destroyed, and the high cost of revenge. Sweeney Todd, a barber wrongfully deported by a corrupt judge who wants to seduce Todd's wife, manages to return to London only to find his wife gone and the corrupt judge still a free man. Through turns in the story not really germane to this account, he discovers his old straight razors being held for him by Mrs. Lovett, a down-on-her-luck meat-pie seller (originally played by Angela Lansbury, who managed to convey avarice, love, and insanity all wrapped together in a really good cockney accent).

Sweeney sings a delightfully creepy love song to his razors called "My Friends," with Mrs. Lovett chiming in in the background: 

Todd:     These are my friends
          See how they glisten
          See this one shine,
          How he smiles in the light
          my friend,
          my faithful friend.

<< He holds the razor to his ear >>

          Speak to me friend.
          Whisper, I'll listen.
          I know, I know.
          You've been locked out of sight all these years,
          like me, my friend.
          Well, I've come home
          to find you waiting.
          Home, and we're together,
          and we'll do wonders, won't we?

(... the song continues for a bit ...) 

<< Slowly Todd rises and holds the razor up to the light. The lights dim,
   except for a harsh spot on Todd >>

Todd:     AT LAST MY ARM IS COMPLETE AGAIN!
The rest of the show continues to get even darker, there's no end of blood and mayhem, and one may legitimately wonder whether or not a show this creepy would get produced today. It's besides the point of this particular story, though.

I drove up to New Hampshire to see my grandmother yesterday. As has become usual when I visit, I fixed a variety of things digital in her apartment, sat and talked about sailing and the summer to come, and played the duck-parry-riposte games necessary to leave the apartment without being stuffed full up to my uvula with food. Another goal for the visit, though, was to pick up a couple of things I'd left at my uncle's house on a previous visit, which he was kind enough to drop off at my grandmother's place. (There's another entire piece of writing to be done about how the laws of physics in New England seem to encourage north-south travel but impede any east-west travel, but I'll leave it for someone else. Suffice it to say it was easier for me to pick the things up at my grandmother's, and that they'd been waiting for me there for two months, now.)

One of the things was a container of homemade curry powder. The other... ah, the other was my waffle iron. It's a beautiful device, all chrome and grids, and solid in one's hand. A good 4-up belgian waffler which heats evenly is a joy to work with, which is why I'd brought it up to my uncle's in the first place.

Driving home with the waffler on the passenger seat next to me, I couldn't help but give it an affectionate pat once or twice. Waffle breakfasts have been a longstanding personal tradition for many years; as good as pancakes are, waffles reign supreme in my mind. This device and I had been separated for long enough.

So I wasn't actually all that disturbed to find myself humming "My Friends" as I drove through the Hampton toll booths last night, and only mildly unnerved on returning home to find myself grabbing the handles of the waffle iron, lifting it out of the car and over my head, and calling out: 

Adam:     AT LAST MY ARM IS COMPLETE AGAIN!

I'd have been really spooked if my sourdough starter had started singing along in Angela Lansbury's voice, but thankfully it didn't.

"... and we'll do wonders / won't we?"

© 2006 Adam Hirsch. 
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