Ne­far­i­ous plot to crum­ble the cook­ies goes awry

North Penn Life - - Accent -

This is a big time of the year for cook­ies. Of course, there is no bad time for cook­ies, now is there?

It has been well doc­u­mented in this space that I have a num­ber of es­sen­tial jobs within the fam­ily unit, many of them with im­por­tant du­ties and big ti­tles, in­clud­ing: Vice Pres­i­dent in Charge of pch­lep­ping the Bags Around the Mall; As­so­ciate Di­rec­tor of Chang­ing the iight­bulbs; As­sis­tant pu­per­in­ten­dent of Haul­ing the Trash to the Curb; Co­or­di­na­tor of hilling All ppi­ders That Dare Come into the House; and Deputy Chief of Grip­ing and Moan­ing, at which I am par­tic­u­larly adept.

vou will note that I am most gen­er­ally the No. 2 guy, sel­dom the boss, be­cause some­body has to put up with all the No. 2 and there’s no­body bet­ter for the job than the No. 2 guy. And I have a rep­u­ta­tion for be­ing a tough No. 2 guy. ppi­ders be­ware. That water ride you’re about to take down the com­mode is chal­leng­ing. Bring your surf­boards.

But ev­ery once in a while I get an ap­point­ment that’s wor­thy of my sta­tus as Tallest Male in the House­hold: 2IfiFLDO CRRNLH 7DVWHr.

With the hol­i­day sea­son re­cently passed, The Blonde Ac­coun­tant had set aside an en­tire day a few weeks ago to bake cook­ies. That right WKHrH VLJnL­fiHV the im­por­tance of the task at hand: Given how busy she is and how many re­spon­si­bil­i­ties she has, if the boss is set­ting aside a whole day to bake, then ev­ery­body needs to stay out of the way.

po af­ter mak­ing my daily house­hold rounds and de­ter­min­ing there was no im­me­di­ate threat from a rum­bling herd of surf­board­ing spi­ders, I had re­tired to the liv­ing room to read and en­joy the sweet aroma as­so­ci­ated with a day’s worth of bak­ing.

Cer­tainly it was chal­leng­ing to con­cen­trate on my read­ing with the smells of the cookie fac­tory a mere few yards away. But I knew bet­ter than to go into the kitchen and ask for some fresh-out-of-the-oven cook­ies. The fear of havLnJ D VSDWuOD firPOy im­planted into my ear quashed any no­tion of leav­ing the couch. As an ex­pe­ri­enced couch­sit­ter-on­ner, I knew that The Blonde Ac­coun­tant was bak­ing cook­ies not only for our fam­ily but for a lot of ex­tended fam­ily mem­bers and friends. If I just ex­er­cised some pa­tience, I would get my share of cook­ies at some point.

ptill, cook­ies fresh out of the oven and yum­mily warm . . . it was in­deed an ex­er­cise in re­straint.

The only thing to do was WR VWDy firPOy VHDWHG Rn WKH couch and con­cen­trate more on my book, which I did. All of a sud­den, The Blonde Ac­coun­tant — in cull Apron Mode and walking to­ward me like Pooh search­ing for the hon­ey­pot — was head­ing into the liv­ing room, spat­ula raised and sport­ing a freshly baked cookie.

“I need some­body to taste th­ese,” she said, stand­ing over me and dip­ping the spat­ula hold­ing the cookie right down to my nose level.

Woo hoo! Happy dance, happy dance, happy dance! I am the right guy for this as­sign­ment.

The cookie was bro­ken, but I didn’t care. cor the rest of the af­ter­noon, if a cookie got bro­ken, it was des­ig­nated as a test cookie, one that would not go into the many con­tain­ers tar­geted to EH fiOOHG wLWK WKH WrHDWV DnG dis­trib­uted to fam­ily and friends.

The one glitch in the whole plan, though, was that The Blonde Ac­coun­tant is a pro in the kitchen and there just weren’t that many bro­ken cook­ies to be had. At least there weren’t enough cook­ies to sat­isfy my crav­ings.

If you know me, then you know ex­actly what I was think­ing at that point: How do I get into the kitchen and break a few more cook­ies with­out her notic­ing? My firVW VWrDWHJy wDV WR JHW D ham­mer out of the garage and raise a big ruckus. But I quickly de­ter­mined that would be tele­graph­ing my plot. phe knows I am woe­fully in­ad­e­quate when it comes to home im­prove­ment projects, and that there would be no rea­son for me to be in the kitchen with a ham­mer in my hand un­less I meant harm to her cook­ies.

No, I needed stealthy pre­ci­sion on this one. po I went into the kitchen to sur­vey the trays of cool­ing cook­ies, mak­ing small talk while try­ing to de­ter­mine which ones could be eas­ily dam­aged with a sim­ple press of my LnGHx finJHr.

“Oops, here’s one that bro­ken,” I said, mov­ing quickly as The Blonde Ac­coun­tant mo­men­tar­ily turned her at­ten­tion away from me and back to the oven.

Well that fooled no­body in North Amer­ica, and the “Get Out of My hitchen” look on her face sug­gested to me that I should in­deed re­treat to the liv­ing room and get back into my book. I would have had a bet­ter chance of rush­ing the ta­ble full of cook­ies with the ham­mer and then claim­ing tem­po­rary in­san­ity. Note to self: Al­ways go with yRur firVW SODn.

I did even­tu­ally get more cook­ies, it was just a few days later than I would have pre­ferred. In fact, there are plenty left­over, and I can still scoop up hand­fuls of them if I want nearly ev­ery time I pass through the kitchen.

poon enough, the cook­ies will be gone, life will get back to its cook­ie­less nor­malcy, and I’ll have to go back to teach­ing spi­ders how to surf.

That’s the way the cookie crum­bles, I guess.

Mike Morsch is ex­ec­u­tive ed­i­tor of Mont­gomery Me­dia and au­thor of the book, “Danc­ing in My Un­der­wear: The Sound­track of My Life.” He can be reached by call­ing 215-542-0200, ext. 415 or by email at msquared35@ ya­ This col­umn can also be found at www.mont­

Outta Left­field Mike Morsch

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