Cookies Equal Chaos

My family is generally an agreeable lot. We don’t argue. Don’t bicker. Maybe we have good communication skills, a shared outlook on life, or mutual respect. Perhaps we’re apathetic and figure there’s no point in trying to change one another’s minds. Who knows. In any case, we get along EXCEPT when it comes to cookies.

Pastry is a constant source of friction. Not so much between my man and me, but between Handsome Hubby and our daughter, who lives above us in a casita, but visits us frequently (mostly at mealtime).

Now, I don’t mind sharing meals with our daughter. She’s lovely, and it’s fun to meet over meat. She helps with the dishes, and we dish over the day’s events.

Cookie Chaos

All is well until dessert time. Then, the hubbub begins.

Handsome Hubby, a normally genial guy, immediately gets his grievance on. He claims — and I admit, he is right — our daughter is a cookie hog.

HH buys bakery delights with the care one typically reserves when procuring wine or bidding on priceless antiques at a fancy auction house. I mean, the man is a cookie connoisseur, or in layman’s terms, he’s a cookie monster. I say this with deep respect to Sesame Street’s beloved Cookie Monster.

So, when our daughter rapidly devours just-bought carrot cake muffins, HH is — to put it mildly — exorcised. When she ingests quantities of croissants that would make a cafe of Frenchmen gasp, “Mon Dieus,” HH utters a stream of “Sacre bleus” and worse!

Just last night, I was at the kitchen sink, cleaning up the dinner dishes. Over the rattle of plates and the swish of water, I heard the two of them in a heated debate.

The exchange sounded like a cross between higher Mathematics and the Nuremberg trials.

“There were four in the packet,” said HH in his most lawyerly tone. “Last night for dessert, I had 3/4s of one. Your mother had 1/4. You had one whole one. Now there are none. When did you eat the other two?”

Our daughter replied, “I had a second one today for lunch, but I did not eat the last one.”

“Well, it’s gone. You must have,” accused the red-faced cookie monster.

“I did not.”

“Did too.”

“Did not.”

By now, I had turned off the kitchen tap.

The Grown-Up Intervenes

“Are you two really arguing about cookies?” I said, stomping over to the dining room table, hands dripping soapy water across the hardwood floor.

“She took the last cookie,” sulked HH.

“Did not,” sulked the grown-up child.

“Did too,” shot back the supposedly grown-up grown-up.

Well, did either of you look in the bread box right next to you on the counter?” I, apparently the only real grown-up in the room, queried.

“Duh,” they said simultaneously.

Then, they jumped up, making a grab for that last cookie.

But I was quicker. I took the cookie. Snapped it in half. Then snapped one half in half again.

“OK, math geniuses, figure it out now. How are you going to divide that into two equal pieces without crumbling it to bits? Have at it. It’s all yours.”

🍪 🍪 🍪

And on that caloric note …

Best wishes to you and yours for a 

Happy, Healthy Thanksgiving Holiday

and 

Remember …

No Fighting over the Cookies!