The cookies are dwindling; there might be a dozen chocolate chip left. Bill can have them. I love those deceiving, bite-size peanut butter cookies. I kid myself into thinking I'm only actually eating the equivalent of four cookies when I pop those dozen little morsels into my mouth. If I still harbor guilt after cramming them down my throat, I tell myself they are paper-thin this year, because I got the bright idea to use a cake decorating tube instead of a spoon to drop the dough onto the baking tray. I'll be glad when these crunchy, melt in my mouth morsels are GONE. But do you think I will toss them? Not on your life. I so enjoy these little high protein (peanut butter), high energy (dark brown sugar) discs that elevate my mood.
In 1982, my friend, Rose, and I got on a sugar high that lasted from Thanksgiving, when we baked enough holiday cookies to supply the army, through the twelve days of Christmas; into the New year; until a day after Valentine's Day when we dashed into Walgreen's and purchased a decorative, heart-shaped box of Chocolates for our mothers, at 50% off! At that price, we could afford an extra large box for ourselves. A double layer of chocolates that we hid from our kids and spouses, lasted us until the first day of spring. Then we were only a few days from chomping the chocolate ears off our kids' Easter bunnies. That was the year that was.
My wonderful brother, John, a fabulous cook and baker, who lived in Reno, sent me a box of homemade chocolate chip-nut cookies the size of large saucers via UPS next day delivery. Two days before Christmas, Rose and I sat on my porch swing freezing, as we waited for the UPS driver who always made his daily rounds in our neighborhood at 11:30 a.m. We spied that brown tank-truck as it rounded the corner. We leaped off the porch steps, ran to the curb, and darted into the street hoping to save the guy a few steps. He swerved to miss us two crazy ladies. We waved frantically to flag him down. He waved back, honked and continued on. Rose and I looked at each other, dismayed. We watched his tail lights disappear, and then, like a wonderful vision, the truck reappeared way down at the end of our double long city block, on the other side of the street. The young fellow in his mud-colored uniform hopped in and out of his truck like a jack rabbit as he inched his way up the street.
We yelled like two sugar-deprived junkies waiting for their dealer. "Hurry up!" As he nosed to the curb half a block away, with only five houses to go, Rose and I waved our arms overhead like we were flagging a Boeing 747. The driver hopped into his truck. We dashed into the middle of Oleatha Street, prepared to accept the package through the driver's window. The poor guy's eyes widened; he gunned the engine and made a sharp right turn, right in front of us, down a side street.
Ten minutes later as Rose and I sat in my kitchen pouting, and watching two pancakes sizzle a crust around the edges, we heard the sound of a large vehicle rattle to a stop in front of my house. "This must be what you two were looking for." The poor guy seemed embarassed and sounded relieved. As I signed for that box of cookies wrapped in an entire roll! of clear tape, I drooled, I mean, salivated onto the form, just imagining those wonderful cookies. It's time I thanked my brother and apologized to that UPS guy.