And so, every year, the whole house fills
with the enchanting aroma of spices, sugar, and warm, baked cookies, until it
just about drives a person crazy with desire. The kitchen becomes Cookie
Cooking Central. Empty flour bags and dough
cover the counters. Small glass dishes
full of brightly colored candies and cookie cutting presses in all sorts of
shapes and designs lie everywhere. Tubes
of icing spilling their contents out their pointed metals ends are stacked on
top of each other like cordwood.
By the time the cookies are
finished, my wife is covered with flour and icing and looks like a giant cookie
herself. In the end, it’s all worth it though, for the cookies far
surpass anything you could buy at the store; they are cookie perfection.
So, what’s the problem, you ask?
Why does the thought of all this culinary nirvana send me into a state of
gloom? Because my wife put me on a diet, that’s why.
“You look like you’ve got a bun in
the oven!” she said to me in November, just after Thanksgiving. “Either
have that baby soon, or you’re going on a diet!”
Needless to say, I didn’t have a
baby; and so now there I was on Christmas Eve, restricted to salads and diet
soda. Meanwhile, the carols are playing, the tree lights are twinkling,
the cookies are sitting on their pretty Christmas plates calling to me, and my
stomach is grumbling like the Grinch. It was like being locked in the
Christmas dungeon.
However, speaking of the Grinch, I
had a plan. It came to me while watching that green goblin on TV, as he
snuck down chimneys and through houses; I’ll just get up at 2 a.m. on Christmas
morning while the Diet Detective is asleep, creep downstairs, and gobble down
all the cookies I want. I could taste them right then. I saw myself
biting these little brown heads off those gingerbread men. Scream all you want
fellas, it won’t do you any good. I would trim those green Christmas
trees with my teeth and melt those snowmen in my big, fat tummy; and the best
thing is, my wife would never be the wiser.
So, there I was, ever so slowly
sliding out of bed. She’s snored so loud it was like sleeping with a buzz-saw;
drooled too. I could have done jumping jacks on the bed and she wouldn’t wake
up.
I slide my feet into my Mickey
Mouse slippers (a gift from the kids last year), slipped on my bathrobe with
all the Homer Simpsons on it, and started my nefarious trip around the bed to
the door.
“Mark.”
Drats, caught! I froze, grumbling curses
under my breath, ready to weep with disappointment.
I smiled innocently and turned
around; “Yes, dear?”
Her eyes were closed as she pulled
her pillow closer. “Turn off the air conditioner. It’s too cold in here.”
Oh, happiness!
She was talking in her sleep! A quiet joy settled over me like a magical
Christmas snow. I grinned with victory and tiptoed out the door.
Down the stairs I almost leaped to
the bottom floor, my heart leaping like a gazelle and visions of sugarplums
dancing in my head.
The lights were out, so I didn’t
see the roller skate on the floor at the bottom of the stairs. Suddenly I was
airborne; skidding across the floor in instant total terror, yelling at the top
of my lungs, wondering what precious body part I’d break when I finally stopped
and gravity takes over.
I whizzed past the tree, a dark shape
in the gloom, past the living room couch. Why couldn’t I land there? At
least it’s soft. On into the dining room, past my prize, the cookies set
on the table, on into the kitchen, where all kinds of sharp things waited to
impale me.
Bam! I hit the counter!
I fall to the floor, dazed, but seemingly intact. And that’s when
the end of the bag of flour I disturbed opened and a cascade of flour fell on
my face in a puff of white.
I opened my eyes and blinked
flour. I sat up and a white cloud followed me. I shook my head and
more came down like a buildup of snow on a roof. I did a mental check; I’d
be sore in the morning, but nothing seemed to be sticking out at odd angles.
My large belly cushioned me; and my wife says being overweight is good for
nothing!
I listened for the dreaded sounds
that said my screams of terror and the noise of my crash had awoken the
sleeping Prison Warden upstairs, but I hear nothing. I stand up, using
the counter for support, and get uncooked dough on my hand. I wipe it off
on my pajamas. The pictures of Homer Simpson on my robe smile at me like
kindred spirits.
I’m wounded in body and dented in
spirit, but it’s going to be worth it; I’m almost there. I head back into
the dining room. It’s hard to see. Do I dare turn on the lights?
Why not? It seems my lovely spouse can sleep through anything.
I flip the switch. Ah; there
are the cookies, heaps and heaps of them, delectable and inviting. I take a
step towards them, licking my lips.
Suddenly the air is shattered
by the frantic howling of a wild beast! I jump back in panic and look
towards the source of the sound.
Oh, diabolical wife of mine!
She has tied our dachshund Linky’s leash to the table and left him as
cookie guard! My normally loyal friend and lap buddy acts as if he’s
never seen me before in his life.
The lights come on; my heart sinks
as I realize that the jig is now up, thanks to my little canine Judas. My wife
looks at me from the stairway, a smile of victory on her face. I smile
back, trying to act natural.
Back in bed after a nice
shower and a kiss from my jailer, I relish in the pleasure of the one cookie
she let me have for my efforts; it was a tree with red sprinkles, and it was
wonderful.
