The Great Cookie Caper

It was just a few weeks before the Christmas of 2017 that my story took place. I had been left alone to my own devices while my wife was in a neighboring town visiting our daughter and son-in-law and our two grandchildren.
Being no stranger to fending for myself and enjoying the brief bit of solitude, I made my simple supper consisting of a can of soup and peanut butter sandwich which I ate while watching the nightly local news under the scrutiny and supervision of the dog.
I had finished my meager feast and was catching up on all the local happenings. The dog had retired to the couch after a long day of guarding the house against intruders when it hit me. The craving. The longing. The need. I wanted desert! Something sweet and now.
Franticly I began my search. All the places known to the Grandkids revealed nothing. Kitchen refrigerator and freezer, kitchen drawers, and even Judy’s secret hiding place for her baking adornments were barren. I began contemplating a trip into town to quench my pastry lust. Even though that would mean a change of clothing from my comfy jogging pants (Yea, right, I jog) and at least fifteen minutes travel time.
Then I remembered the freezer in the basement. Hidden within its deep dark bowels lay a virtual cornucopia, a plethora if you will, of Christmas cookies. Made by my wife, Judy, and frozen for the time being until Christmas when the wealth of homemade goodness of the many dozen pastry treats are to be enjoyed by family and friends in celebration of the season and the birth of Christ.
Slowly I opened the lid. My heart was beating hard and my mouth was watering at the sight of all the sugary temptations that lay below. I tactfully maneuvered a tray out of its frozen vault and with great stealth, carried my tasty treasure to the kitchen.
But my stolen riches are frozen harder than granite slices. “How do I thaw them?” I questioned myself. Do I thaw them quickly in the nuclear reactor that hovers overhead and risk an over temp and perhaps a melt down? Or let them warm at room temperature and risk them being seen by my wife before they are thawed and devoured like a stranded sailor.
In my need for a sugar fix, I decided on a little bit of both would suffice quite nicely. I laid them on a paper towel and placed them in the microwave for about five seconds and then let the warmth of the air finish the job.
Seconds slowly turned to tortures minutes and my need grew stronger. I kept a sharp lookout for the return of my wife and shouted to the cookies to hurry their defrosting least I be caught.
Finally, after what seemed like hours, my fix was thawed, and I ate the first of the round sweet opioids and waited for the high to kick in. Oh sweet ecstasy!! My mind was spinning, and I saw colors as “Inna-Godda-Daveda” played in mind. I was in Valhalla. Vanilla iced chocolate cookies big enough to be used as home plate. Chocolate chip cookies equally as big and with a 50/50 ratio of chips to cookie, I ate until I was sick with delight.
The next day my high was gone, and my state of mind had returned to normal. Judy and I were in the kitchen making small talk and doing some small cleaning when Judy asked me “Where’d the cookies come from?”
Busted!! In my sugary wasteland I had forgotten to return the tray of cookies back to their frozen vault. No explanation I could conjure up. No blame could I place on the dog. I stood there for a few seconds, mouth agape searching for excuse. I couldn’t even lie my way out of this one. “I got them out of the freezer.” I truthfully stated, thinking my matter-of-factness could repel any harsh rebuttal. I was wrong.
I had opened up the gates of hell. Lashing after verbal lashing I endured. I was reminded of the intent for the cookies and now that I had stolen, there might not be enough.
I could do or say nothing. Nothing could be said to vindicate nor justify my actions. But the worse was the threat of no more cookies at Christmas and since my favorite cookies had yet to be made, I kept my mouth shut and sent myself to a self-imposed solitary confinement.
It was about a very solemn hour later when my son showed up for an unexpected visit and light supper. Lewis, or “Lewie” is twenty-four and has a family of his own so his visits are cherished. After we had finished our snacking meal Lewie asked his mother if there was any desert to be had in the house.
With glee and cheer and in front of my unbelieving ears, Judy told Lewie. “There’s some cookies downstairs in the freezer if you want’em!”