I heard a story once about a Madame in New Orleans.
When she was a little girl, her family was poor. Very, very poor. Their house du jour was on the same block of Salcedo as a bakery that made lemon pies. All she ever wanted was a lemon pie. Her family had a boarder, and finally her mother told her that the next he paid rent, she could have a lemon pie. His rent was due in three weeks. She counted down the days. On the twentieth day, Mr McCann was in the bathroom quite a while before someone went to check on him. He had drank carbolic acid and died.