What an awful dilemma I had inadvertently created! There was no one else to blame and I found that, as I often sadly look to assign the culpability leading to a sad state of affairs off on someone else's lack of common sense, in this case the responsible party was all too obvious. That's right, this time I had only myself to blame. Now to the most important issue: what was I to do?
My son Rob, my granddaughter Sarah and my daughter-in-law Chris came to my home in late December of the past year. They came to visit and they came bearing gifts as we were going to celebrate the Christmas holiday together. For each and every Christmas past, Chris created in her kitchen some of the best delicacies.
In the weeks and months following the prior holidays, I enjoyed peanut brittle, leftover meats and dips and, yes, cookies. With the exception of peanut brittle, the other treats were foods not eaten on Christmas Eve. As much as we tried, we could never devour the mountains of food served up on those most special of nights.
The peanut brittle was considered by all, and probably most of all by me, to be Chris' "pièce de résistance." It was so creamy and buttery tasting and maybe best of all, at least to my way of thinking, it seemed to maintain its delicious taste and consistency for quite some time. In my life as someone living alone, foods must possess the quality of survivability, that is, have a long life expectancy.
This past Christmas, Chris showed up with a large Tupperware container.
"Here you go. I made these for everyone to snack on Christmas Eve but you can keep whatever is left over."
I pulled the blue translucent sealed lid from the long rectangular container and found layered between sheets of thin paper, Christmas cookies.
The cookies were in the shapes of trees, Santas and snowmen. I didn't hear, or at least wasn't paying attention to Chris' words for a moment or two as I continued to examine the contents of the container. Those baked figures were constructed of a dark brown looking substance which I only later discovered was gingerbread. The exterior of each cookie was wildly decorated with white icing.
I thanked Chris and made only one comment in passing.
"I'm sure everyone will enjoy these tomorrow night."
In truth, my mind was working on several possible plans -- scheming, if you will -- for a way to avoid offering the cookies to those in attendance, thus leaving more for myself.
Christmas Eve came and everyone talked, tore the paper from brightly wrapped presents and, yes, ate. There was ham, turkey, chips and dip, salads, pies and cakes and of course, cookies. To my surprise, the cookies, which remained somewhat out of site, stashed behind the large bowl of chips, remained relatively untouched.
Chris, Rob and Sarah loaded up their car the following morning and said goodbye as they started the three and one-half hour drive to Chris' parent's home.
"Just put those cookies in the freezer and they'll last pretty long," Chris said as she lowered herself into the car.
"Okay," I said as I waved goodbye.
The holiday custom dictated that the three spend the afternoon with Chris' relatives before later that evening driving another two hours back to their house. Holidays can be tough on the younger folks as they are expected to visit all the older relatives.
It was a few days post-Christmas that I developed a new habit. Every other day or so I treated myself to two frozen cookies; exactly two cookies, no more no less. That pattern lasted for a few months until, and sadly, the cold stash of cookies finally disappeared.
Knowing that the next chance for a cookie refill would be Father's Day, I let it be known that another supply of similar cookies would be a nice gift. Any thoughts of the perfect gift would be unnecessary and the cost of the present would be reasonable.
Sure enough, father's day came and so did a large container of the cookies. These, too, were in a Tupperware container. Once again the cookies were made of dark brown gingerbread laced with white icing. This time the shapes were of golf balls and golf gloves. How very clever I thought to myself.
I found the brown cookies whose tops were outlined with bright white icing to be the perfect snack food. They were portable, there were no wrappers to dispose of and after a few crumbs were consumed, there was no residual evidence of the exquisitely scrumptious goodies' existence. The dark auburn shaded marvels were simply perfect in every way.
With the passing of Father's Day, I find myself in a similar position as that of the predicament following Christmas. I am running low on my supply of cookies. I also find that I have become somewhat used to, maybe even addicted to, two cookies at a time. That is the perfect serving size. However, after examining my much-depleted supply I found that I have 19 cookies remaining.
"What now," I asked myself. That's enough for nine servings with one left over. What do I do about that remaining cookie? I needed a new plan and another occasion when I might receive a gift.
"What about a birthday," I asked myself? It seems that I talk to myself quite a bit.
I've dropped enough hints regarding a present for my all too soon to be 71st birthday. You know, "those cookies were the best gift I ever received" and "those cookies were the perfect present for any occasion" and finally, "I sure I hope I get those cookies when my birthday rolls around."
I realize that I might have taken the surprise factor out of the equation but to heck with surprises. I'm surprised enough each and every morning when I open my eyes and find that I'm still alive.
Having described the abundance of hints dropped, I must admit to the realization that my plan is filled with danger. If without thinking I mentioned the odd number of cookies in my freezer, you know 19, and my problem with those two digits, I might foil my plan. Suppose I was to receive an Under Armour Loose Fit Heat Gear size medium shirt, which would be a nice gift, and also one, and only one, single accompanying cookie. OK, the receipt of the shirt would be well appreciated and, while that one cookie would solve the odd/even problem, an inventory of only 20 cookies certainly wouldn't last very long. At the rate of eating two cookies a day, I would be out of cookies in only 10 days; how worrisome.
I now find that I am in a somewhat precarious position and I am forced to ration my remaining cookies while I await the date of my birth. Let's just see if I get the perfect gift, brown-colored gingerbread cookies in different shapes covered with random lines made of sweet white icing. Of course, I'll need an odd number of new cookies to straighten out the odd/even problem.
Stan Fine is a retired police officer and Verizon Security Department investigator who, after retiring in 2006, moved from Tampa, Fla., to Noel. Stan's connection to Noel can be traced back to his grandparents who lived most of their lives there. Stan began writing after the passing of his wife Robin in 2013. Opinions expressed are those of the author.