“You’re going
to what?”
“I’m going to
bring refreshments to the next DGNTFS meeting.”
“I thought
this group was supposed to get you off your pathetic addiction to setting the
house on fire?” Stij asked.
“Oh, come
on. That only happened twice.”
“Aren’t you
forgetting the taffy creation you came up with that turned out to be C-4 with
sugar?”
“Ah, but that
was an explosion, not a fire.”
Stij just
gave me THE LOOK. Since THE LOOK is
usually followed by THE REMINGTON, I deftly changed the subject. “So how is
work going?”
“Gerry and
Liz invited us to a pot luck supper.”
“Oh, that’s
great! What shall I bring?”
“I told her
you’d bring the pot.”
“Tee hee, it
is to laugh. But getting back to my
support group…”
“Oh, yeah, I
meant to ask you—what’s with the paper I have to sign?”
“It’s a
permission slip for me to make the refreshments.”
“Permission
slip! It should be an injunction!”
“Now, Stij…”
“Well, let’s
see what this thing says. ‘I (your name here) am aware that (lousy cook’s name
here) will be attempting to prepare refreshments for the cooking support group
for the next meeting. I attest that my
fire insurance is paid up and that a living will is in place. I agree to hold the group harmless for any emergency
skin grafts, amputated limbs, and any and all singed nostril hair. If you are
planning on tasting the cooking effort, we encourage you to have a stomach pump
at the ready and the Poison Control Center on speed dial.’”
“It does not
say that!”
“Well, it
should,” Stij grumbled. “So what, if I
may ask, are you planning on besmirching our happy home with this time?”
“I thought I’d
make cannolis.”
“Out to bring
the wrath of the Italians down on our heads, then?”
“Hey, I have
nothing against Italians! I had an
Italian teacher for one of my cooking classes…before the school burned down.”
“I
remember. He’s still in hiding somewhere
in Sicily…probably trying to hire a hit man.”
“All
right. Then what do you think I should make?”
“Why don’t
you try a pie. Pies are pretty easy,
right?”
“Not for
me. Remember Thanksgiving eight years
ago?”
“Oh,
yes. That was the first time I was ever
served mince pie in a glass. And by the
way, it’s ‘mince’ pie—m-i-n-c-e—not m-i-n-t-s.”
“Oh. It took about four dozen York Peppermint
Patties to fill that pie.”
“Yes, it was
the only dessert to make my breath minty fresh just before all my teeth
instantly rotted and fell out of my head.”
“So what
else, then? And how are the dentures, by the way?”
Another dirty look. "How about
sugar cookies? Those are pretty basic.”
“Sugar
cookies it is!”
I found a
recipe that I thought would work. Not
many ingredients, and it sounded easy. I
wanted to add green food coloring, just for something different, but we didn’t
have any, so I melted a crayon and added it to the flour, sugar, eggs, butter,
vanilla extract, baking soda, and baking powder, all of which was carefully measured
and mixed together. I then put rounded teaspoons full of dough on the cookie
sheet, put it in the oven, and sat back to wait.
After about
six minutes, I turned the oven light on to check progress.
The entire
inner surface of the oven was covered in a green pulsating slime, which had eaten
every cookie on the sheet!
I dashed out
to Stij’s shop. “How do you get rid of
green slime?”
“Call the Ghostbusters?”
“Big
help. The oven in full of what appears
to be a sentient slimer!”
“I’ll bet
that was what was left when you lime jello baked Alaska exploded,” Stij
said. “Add some heat and protein and God
knows what genetic mutation you’ve created in there! Lemme see.”
We entered the
kitchen cautiously. There was a huge
green face smashed up against the oven window and it didn’t look happy.
“What should we
do? It ate all my cookies!”
“Just wait,”
Stij said.
And sure
enough, after another moment or two, there was a muffled scream, a gurgle, and
it slid down the inside of the oven, ending up lying motionless across the
empty cookie sheet.
“How did you
know that would happen?”
“It ate your
cookies, didn’t it?”
I think I’ll
skip the meeting this week.
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