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General Contest Rules

By: Audrey Lintner

It is an established fact that I like to bake. Not the kind of baking that involves climbing into a well-lit glass coffin and turning orange. I mean the kind that usually calls for way too much butter and sugar and other fantastically unhealthy things.

Alcohol, on occasion.

In addition to the actual baking, I am also very fond of eating the things I bake. You can therefore imagine my delight when I was invited to participate in a cookie exchange. Baking and eating of multiple cookies? I’m there, dude.

I gleefully whipped up a few dozen peppermint sugar cookies, pausing several times to smack Larry’s hands as he attempted to snitch samples of the finished product. In my baking-induced state of cheer, I failed to realize that the seeds of irritation had just been planted. The cookies cooled safely, and into a box they went.

Off we drove to the site of the cookie exchange.

Larry was like a connoisseur in wine country, eyeballing the array of treats before us. If I hadn't restrained him, he probably would have swirled a few under his nose. At least I knew I could count on him NOT spitting them out after each test bite.

I let Larry have the privilege of choosing the cookies to take home. He did a fine job, too. Several fudgy things went into the box, along with Snickerdoodles and chocolate chip cookies. An iced something-or-other joined the rest, along with a yummy-looking graham concoction. We closed the lid and mingled for a while before taking our leave.

That evening, after Junior had been put to bed, I decided to try one of the fudgy things. The box was on the table, and the top was open.

It was empty.

I take that back. There were approximately three crumbs left in the bottom of the box. Every last cookie, concoction, and fudgy thing had disappeared into the walking snack vacuum that is my husband.

“You ate all the cookies!”

“Oh. Um, I though you already had one.”

“One? ONE?! I baked four dozen cookies, we brought home a whole box, and you thought I could have one lousy cookie?”

I may or may not have lost my temper at that point, possibly referring to Larry as “Captain Oinky” and wishing a case of fire-breathing heartburn upon him. He looked suitably sheepish, but did not offer to replace the cookies.

He’s not invited to the next exchange.