You pull up into the driveway, sighing. Your employee, Seymour Skinner, had invited you over for lunch at his house - or, more accurately, his mother's house, as he still lived with his mother. Debts or something.

His directions, though, were pretty terrible. He had sent you all the way up to Canada, southeast to Florida, and all the way around Washington DC, before making you drive into the ocean. Obviously, you had to find his house on your own.

But no matter. You're here now, that's what's important.

You take a moment to make double sure you're presentable, before ringing the doorbell.

Some footsteps - and a small crash, what was that about? - before the door opens, and Seymour, still in his suit and a small apron, appears.

"Well, Seymour, I made it," you say, a small edge of bitterness entering your voice as you add, "despite your directions."

If Seymour picks up on it, he doesn't show it. "Ah, Superintendent Chalmers, welcome!" He says a little too enthusiastically, "I hope you're prepared for an unforgettable luncheon."

You let out a short grunt as he lets you in. Sitting down, you watch as he enters the kitchen, unexpectedly letting out a sharp gasp as he runs into the kitchen, throwing the door closed.

A muffled "OH EGADS" - or was it "oh ye gods"? Hard to tell through the door - followed by something unintelligible. He lets out a laugh, "delightfully devilish, Seymour."

Curiosity wells up inside you. Just what is going on in there? You open the door to check -

And there's Seymour, mid-climbing out of the window, looking like a thief caught mid-heist.

♪ Skinner with his crazy explanations ♪

♪ Superintendent's gonna need his medication ♪

♪ When he hears Skinner's lame exaggerations, there'll be trouble in town tonight! ♪

"SEYMOUR!" You yell, enraged that he might be trying to escape - and that he seems to have burned the food.

"Superintendent! I was just, uh---" Seymour doesn't seem to have calculated this possibility, in his strange 'plan' - whatever that may be.

"S-stretching my calves on the windowsill!" Seymour spouts, trying to convince you nothing's wrong. "Isometric exercise, care to join me?"

While that does, in fact, sound kind of nice, there are more pressing matters at hand. Specifically, the smoke. "Why is there smoke coming out of your oven, Seymour?"

"Uh-" Seymour acts - badly - like he's just noticing it. "Oh! That isn't smoke, it's steam. Steam from the steamed clams we're having. MmMmMmMm, steamed clams!"

You think, suspicious. He does have a point, though - you have always mixed up steam and smoke, and this may be one of those times. For the time being, you leave the kitchen.

"Superintendent," Seymour says, entering the dining room, "I hope you're ready for mouth-watering hamburgers!"

Hamburgers, you think to yourself. Didn't he say we were having steamed clams? "I thought we were having steamed clams."

"Do'h, no," says Seymour, visibly looking slightly distressed, "I said steamed hams! That's what I call hamburgers."

You can't tell, but it looks like Seymour may, in fact, be lying. But he's saying this all without hesitation, unlike other times he's lied. "You call hamburgers steamed hams?"

"Yes! It's a regional dialect."

"Uh-huh. Eh, what region?"

"Uh, upstate New York?" Another flinch of distress.

"Really." You're sure Seymour's lying now. "Well, I'm from Utica and I've never heard anyone use the phrase steamed hams."

"Oh, not in Utica, no, it's an Albany expression."

Well, that was unexpected. He can't be lying now, can he? It's like how people from Boston speak differently than the rest of Massachusetts. Considering how you've never been to Albany, you decide to take his word for it. "I see."

As you take a bite of a steamed ham, a familiar - and unexpected - flavour floods your mouth. Is this...? "You know," you say slowly, "these hamburgers are quite similar to the ones they have at Krusty Burger."

"Oh ho ho, no," Seymour responds, nervous, "patented SkinnerBurgers™! Old family recipe."

If that was true, Krusty Burger was stealing his recipe. "For steamed hams."

"Yes!"

"Yeah..." As you open the burger, you notice a crucial fact, that makes you extremely suspicious of your friend. "...and you call them steamed hams, despite the fact they are obviously grilled."

You've got him now. Sweat is visibly forming on Seymour's forehead, he's stammering and nervous. Then, unexpectedly, he responds, "Excuse me for one second."

"Of course." You take a bite of the hamburger. These steamed hams really are good, though, you think to yourself, I wonder if he's actually telling the truth. Regional dialects can be contradictory sometimes, after all...

Finally, Seymour exits the kitchen, yawning. "Well, that was wonderful!" He says, "Good times were had by all, I'm pooped!"

"Yes, I should be-" You start, getting up to leave, when you notice.

His kitchen is on fire.

"GOOD LORD, WHAT IS HAPPENING IN THERE!?" You shout, wondering what happened in those few seconds Seymour had left. He just responds with something strange: "Aurora borealis?"

What in the name of god is he talking about!? Does he really expect you to believe that he is housing the aurora borealis in his kitchen!?

"Aurora borealis!?" You respond, shouting at him, "At this time of year, at this time of day, in this part of the country, localized entirely within your kitchen!?!?"

"Yes!"

...Well. That was an unexpected response. If he's telling the truth, you probably should see it. "May I see it?"

"...no."

Understandable, you think, he probably wants to keep it a secret...

Outside, you hear Seymour's mother, Agnes, shout, "SEYMOUR! THE HOUSE IS ON FIRE!" Expectedly, Seymour's response is "No, mother, it's just the northern lights."

"Well, Seymour, you are an odd fellow," You say, turning to him, "but I must say: You steam a good ham."

And a good ham he has steamed. You underestimated his cooking skills; you really must do this again sometime.

Agnes starts calling for help as you leave, but Seymour's thumbs up indicates that it's all fine.

This really was an unforgettable luncheon.