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Monday, 30 January 2012

The Way the Cookie Crumbles

By Mickey Rogers of This, That and the Other

I didn’t like some of the food that Mom prepared for us. Perhaps the worst of the worst was the cornbread. For some unknown reason, she laced it with thick hunks of pure fat. Instead of eating the tainted cornbread, I stuffed it into my pants pocket, piece by piece.

Later, in the bathroom, I flushed the uneatable stuff down the toilet. I bet the person who cleaned the septic tank was mystified!

Not wanting to waste any morsel of food, Mom kept a “slop jar” in the refrigerator. Anything left over went into that jar so one never quite knew what he or she was eating.

Unfortunately, almost all those mysterious leftovers were liquid or mushy, so stuffing them into my pockets was out of the question.

No one, not even “Dad the Dictator,” could force me to eat both ends of a hotdog. One end was the head of the wiener, so it followed that the other end was the butt. Of course, by definition, the end that I ate was always the head. Isn’t that logical?

On the other hand, Mom’s homemade soups were excellent and her homemade bread was to die for. I loved to get a large slice of bread while it was still warm. After applying butter and gobs of jelly or peanut butter, I quickly devoured it and then begged for more.

All of Mom’s cookies were great but my favorites were the ones with the jelly filling in the center. Once I ate about fifteen of them for a snack! It’s a wonder I didn’t turn into a real tubby.

One Saturday morning, Mom made a gigantic batch of those mouth-watering cookies. After putting them into the top section of the roaster, she issued the following warning: “Stay away from these cookies! I’ll need all of them so leave them alone!”

My two sisters were there, but they weren’t warned. For some reason, Mom believed that her daughters were completely trustworthy. Her son, however, was another matter.

Dad was the proud owner and commander of the one and only automobile in the family and Mom did not drive. Therefore, during the day, while Dad was at work, we usually walked to get from point A to point B. That particular Saturday we walked to town. Back in the day, almost all the important stores were located there.

After a few hours of shopping we headed home. A little later, Mom checked her precious cookies and lo and behold, about five or six or so were missing! She didn’t accuse my sisters; she had already solved the case.

“I told you not to eat those cookies! I’m telling your dad when he gets home! Then you’ll get what’s coming to you!” she screamed at me.

I professed my innocence but to no avail. Cookies were missing, I loved those cookies and because I was a bratty little boy, I suppose, I was automatically guilty. End of case.

At about 5:30, as usual, Dad whirled into the driveway. No sooner had he walked through the door when Mom complained: “I made a batch of cookies today and I ordered him to leave them alone! He disobeyed me and ate several of them!”

Mom was really ticked off but she had a little smile on her face, no doubt anticipating the whipping that, from her point of view, I so richly deserved.

However, instead of taking off his thick leather belt, Dad sheepishly replied, “I stopped by this afternoon. No one was home but I found those cookies and helped myself.”

Poor Mom was deflated. I was going to escape a punishment that she believed I somehow inherently deserved. Moreover, she was probably shocked by the fact that I could actually tell the truth.

Since Mom wasn’t certain exactly how many cookies had been devoured by Dad, after the rest of the family left the kitchen, I helped myself to a couple of them. The way I figured it, I had earned those tasty treats; this was a case of simple justice. Never before or since have I eaten such wonderful cookies.

[INVITATION: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. PLEASE read instructions for submitting.]

Posted by Ronni Bennett at 05:30 AM | Permalink | Email this post


I've no doubt they tasted great, being forbidden fruit, and all.

Too bad about the cornbread. It's one of my favorite things to make - and eat!

One of my favorite reasons to go visit my grandma as a child and an adult was her cookie jar. It was always at least half full and open to anyone. She weighed about 300 lbs at the height of 5 ft 2 inches. I suspect the jar was kept supplied for herself as well as anyone who dropped in.
Enjoyed your story.
Michigan Grandma in Arizona

What a fun and tasty memory.

I feel that you earned a few treats too.

There is a great old song named Rachel, written by Jim Ringer, who sings the praise of a girl, "a watermelon, ripe and freshly stole."

I grew up believing, and still believe,an ever-ready cookie jar was the premier meaning of the word Grandma.

You were right to eat those cookies. You had earned them!

Thanks for a funny story!

Thank goodness your Dad told the truth! Why on earth didn't she make extras for people around the house? No matter, now it's all a memory. Great story.

Good one, Mickey. I like your logic.

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