Sitting in carpool today, I decided to clean out my glove compartment. Inside, I found a little waxy paper bakery envelope containing a cookie. It was a WHOLE cookie, though some edges had crumbled.
It was a small artisan fancy cream colored grown up sort of cookie. An adult cookie. It seemed…Frenchish, in that I suspected it would be lightly sweet and would have had, before it aged, a velvety texture.
It smelled faintly of lavender and butter, but the cream inside had definately hardened.
This cookie, of unknown age and origin, had no visible molds or defects. It seemed to have small specks of nuts and perhaps candied violet petals in the cream, and was uneven in that way that bespeaks handcrafted care.
It seemed like a cookie that, in it’s prime, would have cost three dollars, maybe more, even though it was barely more than a couple of respectable bites. It was, in circumference, less than Oreo sized, but with the sandwich portions of it being taller, like a shortbread.
Reader, I married it.
Okay no. I didn’t. I did not marry it.
Worse. LOOK IT WAS A LONG HOT CARPOOL AND I WAS BORED AND I WONDERED IF IT WAS STILL “GOOD.”
That’s not true. Honestly? I didn’t even AGONIZE. I didn’t even consider. I FOUND it, examined it, said, “Hmmm,” and then, not even FOUR respectable seconds later….
Reader, I ate it.
Reader? I am not even remotely sorry. (Unless it was secretly so rotten that it kills me or gives me food poisoning. Then I am.)
Let he or she who is without sin cast the first of THEIR righteously rejected glove compartment hard-as-rocks cookies. Or no, don’t.
I’ll likely pick ’em up and eat them, too.