Let Them Eat Cookies
Usually on the weekend, I bake bread.
I like baking bread. Kneading the dough is very therapeutic. And the house smells fabulous. And of course the bread is delicious.
Unfortunately,sometimes I just don’t have time. Like this weekend.
But I threw together some blueberry muffins, so we had a few day’s worth of breakfasts ready. By Tuesday, though, they were gone. We were stuck with Cheerios.
“I’ll pick up some bread today,” offered my husband. Since he is a nice guy.
On Tuesday, Hubby went out to dinner with his brother. They also went shopping (again) at Cabela’s. But that’s okay with me, as long as he is not Christmas shopping for MY present at the big Gala of Guns.
So having the evening to myself, I went out after work. I tried out a Zumba class for the first time. (I’ll write about it eventually…as soon as my heart stops pounding.)
So I get home from Zumba, and find there is a package on the table.
Inside the box, was this:
You may have noticed that there was a note on the top of the box.
Obviously these cookies were a hit. The amount left in the box is also a clue.
I bake. My husband does not bake. So I don’t know if he was offering to help or just using the “royal we”.
When my husband got home from Pistol-Packing Paradise the first thing he said was, “Did you see my note?”
I’d been home for two hours, so I had recovered enough from Zumba to gasp, “Yup.”
“They’re really good,” he said. “Try one.”
It usually doesn’t take a lot to get me to try a cookie. But I am not a big fan of Italian almond cookies. Just a little too sweet for my taste. But I took one. (I am very polite.)
And as soon as I chose one, my husband was offended for the ones I didn’t choose. “Why did you choose that one? Don’t you like the other kind?” I guess he knows how sensitive cookies can be.
So I asked him why he would like to try making them.
“Because they were $10.00 a pound.”
He paid $10 a pound for cookies. When he usually goes to Ocean State Job Lot for snacks.
“Where did you get them?” I asked.
“The Italian bakery joint,” he said. “The one with the old lady.”
That narrows it down.
Wednesday morning. My usual routine. Shower, iron (I can’t wear anything not freshly pressed...hey, Freshly Pressed Decider – do you see my reference?), an inordinate amount of time on hair and makeup, and I finally go down to the kitchen for breakfast.
My husband is groggy, but he’s put the coffee on. Since he is a nice guy.
I open the bread box. It’s empty.
“Did you buy bread at the bakery?” I ask.
“No. Just cookies. Was I supposed to buy bread?”