Nefarious plot to crumble the cookies goes awry
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@ yahoo.com. This column can also be found at www.montgomerynews.com.
Outta Leftfield Mike Morsch