Oh, he's munificent all right -- in helping himself to whatever he wants from the garden -- like last time he was here and he sees an evening primrose open up for thirty precious yellow seconds, its delicate moment of glory, the flower's time to flower, so he marches out and plucks it right up from the ground and says he'll cook it up for dinner (edible plant, you know) but the guy can't even operate a toaster I tell you -- he sticks ten pieces of bread in there all at once like it was some kind of variadic give-me-whatever-you-have contraption and then he gets all contumacious when you tell him one slot is for one slice.