The pigeon-pie was not bad, but it was a delusive pie: the crust being like a disappointing head, phrenologically speaking: full of lumps and bumps, with nothing particular underneath.

In short, the banquet was such a failure that I should have been quite unhappy--about the failure, I mean, for I was always unhappy about Dora--if I had not been relieved by the great good humour of my company, and by a bright suggestion from Mr.Micawber.
'My dear friend Copperfield,' said Mr.Micawber, 'accidents will occur in the best-regulated families; and in families not regulated by that pervading influence which sanctifies while it enhances the--a--I would say, in short, by the influence of Woman, in the lofty character of Wife, they may be expected with confidence, and must be borne with philosophy.

If you will allow me to take the liberty of remarking that there are few comestibles better, in their way, than a Devil, and that I believe, with a little division of labour, we could accomplish a good one if the young person in attendance could produce a gridiron, I would put it to you, that this little misfortune may be easily repaired.' There was a gridiron in the pantry, on which my morning rasher of bacon was cooked.

We had it in, in a twinkling, and immediately applied ourselves to carrying Mr.Micawber's idea into effect.

The division of labour to which he had referred was this:--Traddles cut the mutton into slices; Mr.Micawber (who could do anything of this sort to perfection) covered them with pepper, mustard, salt, and cayenne; I put them on the gridiron, turned them with a fork, and took them off, under Mr.
Micawber's direction; and Mrs.Micawber heated, and continually stirred, some mushroom ketchup in a little saucepan.