I’m on a quest, and I just know someone out there will know what I’m talking about.

In the summer of 1987, I was a counselor at a performing arts camp in Missoula, Montana. One of the campers brought with her a tape recording of her favorite storyteller. I don’t remember his name, but one of the stories has stuck with me all this time and in fact has worked its way into our family lexicon. The tale was about two children who found themselves in a strange land governed by the King of the Raisins. (“He was married to a wafer.”) The raisins are amiable enough despite their aversion to the strange wiggling things at the end of the children’s arms—

“What you got there, worms?”

“No, they’re fingers! See?”

(Sound of raisins screaming.) “Ahhhh! Horrible, horrible! But I like you anyway.”

I find myself quoting the horrified raisins now and then, usually while changing a particularly toxic diaper. I’ve told as much of the story as I can remember to my kids, but I long to hear the whole thing again and find out if it’s really as hilarious as I remember it.

Does it ring a bell for any of you? No? Oh, that’s horrible, horrible. But I like you anyway.