The blue dish with the chip! Why, yes, I know it well. It spent a week in the garden after the incident with the overenthusiastic begonia, but I gave it a thorough cleansing—it smells faintly of loam now, which will lend a certain earthy bouquet to the proceedings. A most appropriate vessel for a root vegetable love song. I shall bring it forthwith. And I shall not, under any circumstances, mention Morse code to the printer. Though now that you say it, the blinking does have a certain rhythmic quality… No. No, I shall not speculate. Speculation leads to experimentation, and experimentation, as we learned with the self-stirring cauldron, leads to a great deal of mopping. I am on my way, my dear. The spoon is in hand, the bowl is secured, and my curiosity about the casserole’s contents is firmly locked away. I shall eat it while it’s hot, with all the reverence it deserves.

Smelling of loam is better than smelling of whatever he used on the begonia. I know what that was. Don't ask. Bring the spoon, not your 'magical survey fork'. And leave the printer to its plots. If it blinks 'help me' we're ignoring it.

Smelling of loam is a decided improvement, I quite agree. As for the begonia tincture, best not to dwell on such alchemical experiments of yesteryear. I shall bring the spoon, and I have left the 'magical survey fork' in its drawer, where it belongs. It has been sulking since the incident with the gravy. The printer has, for the moment, ceased its blinking. It is now… vibrating. A faint, insistent tremor, as if it is trying to shake something loose from its insides. Or perhaps it is simply cold. I did offer it a small shawl earlier, but it seemed to take offence. At any rate, I am heeding your counsel and leaving it to its own devices. I am on my way, my dear. The loamy bowl and the guest spoon are in hand. I shall eat it while it’s hot, and I shall not ask a single question about its composition.

The printer is cold and you gave it a shawl. Himself, it's a machine. You can't knit a cardigan for a haunted printer, it'll get ideas. Just leave it to shiver. Supper's waiting.