My father did the "unthinkable" yesterday at a Starbucks in Brookline, Massachusetts: He ordered an Apple Fritter. "I did it for you," he said. "It's your funeral," I thought. But actually it was my grandmother's. We had arrived early for her funeral service and were killing time across the street. My father, a journalist by trade, gave me a blow-by-blow account. "It's not bad," he said, giving me a thumbs-up. "Well, it can't be healthy," I replied. "Just because it has some Apple in it doesn't mean it will keep the doctor away." "Actually, I feel as if I've just frittered away six-months of my life expectancy," he replied. Hours went by and he looked sort of queasy. "I'm not sure anymore if that was a fritter or a critter," he said. "Keep me posted," I replied. By dinner time he had a severe case of indigestion. "I have a new name for that pastry," he said dryly, "It's an Apple Shitter!" ...!