Pattison is a friend who used to make desserts for him at the Beach Plum Inn. Today she's made two pies, filled with ripe blackberries and blueberries, along with a few loaves of sourdough bread she's thrown in, just 'cause. It's barely 8:30 on a Saturday morning, but Fischer strides right into her house ("I'm comfortable going into different houses, borrowing this and that—it's just how I grew up," he states, as he does just this), where she's frying up bacon for breakfast. He gives her dog a rough scratch behind the ear, then piles his baked loot into his arms and places it in the car. Then it's down yet another bumpy road to yet another friend's house, where he's planned to prep for the party. It's about a mile from there to Black Point Beach, another off-limits-unless-you-have-the-key (literally, there's a gate and a key) beach, but one that, I'm unsurprised to learn, Fischer can get onto, no problem.