In 1912 Corbin, Kentucky, Harlan David Sanders wasn’t yet “Colonel Sanders.” He ran a boarding house by the railroad—guests remembered the spotless white suit and the way he stared while you ate. His “house special” wasn’t on the menu, but it came in thick slices, pale and tender, with a faint sweetness that lingered for days. Travelers who stayed one night sometimes never reached their next stop. When police finally searched, the smokehouse was scrubbed bare—except for seven rusted tins that reeked of something no one could name. Decades later, the same man smiled from chicken buckets across America. The ads spoke of eleven herbs and spices… but seven have no name, and no origin anyone can trace.

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“What did the council decide on item 42?” — answered with the speaker and the moment.

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