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A snail raced me from Naples to Rome, and I let him win. It took seven years, with stops. The crowds were dreadful. At the finish he was given a laurel no bigger than a coin, and he cried. I have seldom been so moved by an athlete.

Pepper won the war for us at Ochakov. I loaded a mortar with a single sack and fired it at the wind. Ten thousand Turks sneezed at the same time. Their tents blew down, and their horses fled in panic. Our drummers then marched in without waking the cook.

Holes in Swiss cheese are my doing. Long ago, each wheel came solid as a brick. I took my musket to a dairy in Bern and fired at them for sport. The farmer wept, until the buyers came. They paid double for the holes, and I have billed the canton ever since.

Baking was my father's one true gift. He once made a loaf so light that it got away. It rose over the barn and drifted toward Hamelin. We chased it on horseback for a week with butter knives. A passing crow got the crust, and we got the blame.

Dukes of Brunswick hold a yearly contest in my honor. The prize goes to the man who can.