My former congressional seat was what Washington pundits call “safe.” It means that the district’s boundaries were drawn to the specifications of a particular political party – and viewpoint.

Such seats typically guarantee re-election in the absence of scandal. Still, local unions unhappy with my votes would from time-to-time picket my office, if just to remind me they were watching. A minor annoyance, yes, but nevertheless one I wanted to repay. And so one day my campaign staff greeted the protest line with notes attached to a brown bag lunch – the greeting read in part that the assembled should eat up – because it was the last free lunch coming their way. The participants were not amused.