Tuesday, January 4

Cookies and Cream: Tell Me a Bedtime Story

There was a time when cookies and cream (warmed milk) was not a dessert (or an ice cream flavor [extrapolation cookie dough]), but a bedtime snack: two cookies (chocolate chip, please) and glass (6-10 oz) of plain milk (slightly heated). This combination was a source of comfort before entering the mysterious depths of La-la Land. Also known as milk and cookies, a story (mercurially about La-la Land) usually accompanied the treat. The story concluded once the affectionate confection was completely consumed, or the recipient of the delectable fell asleep.

This past evening, I had cookies and coffee. My niece made some of her (for now and ever famous, expecting to receive another batch next holiday season) chocolate chip cookies. As seen here, these cookies seem quite typical, unassuming. From this aerial view, one expects that the unseen underside of the cookie has a slight char of carbon. One might conclude, I, by obligation, will eat a few of these with a wash-down swig (of coffee) so that I will not feel guilty the next time there is another family gathering or digital communication.


The problem is that I feel guilty for eating the entire bag in one sitting before going to bed. Not counting, there were about eight cookies; two, unfortunately, were not available for the picture. While I did take notes before falling asleep, I woke-up with the desire to tell this bedtime story.

Upon inspection, there was no underbelly char. Instead an unseemly smooth surface as if placed on parchment paper prior to baking. While worth investigating, my interest was elsewhere.

Crispy. Crumbly. Crunchy. Chewy. Creamy? Then I took a sip of coffee. Immediately, I wished that I had not. Fortunately, there were more cookies for me to digest, so my mistake would not be repeated--except to prevent me from engorging. Besides the drink, I was able to pace myself because there was a secret in these textured chocolate chip cookies that preoccupied my attention. This ingredient was the confectionate bond.

Not terribly sweet, a durable cookie--approximately three and a half inches in diameter--did not break into tiny pieces until flat-dropped from a height above four feet. Fortunately, I was given two bags of cookies--and I am not afraid of eating (dry food) off my kitchen floor.

An eerie delight that is to be enjoyed as dreamy longing lasts, and never re-gifted.

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