On Saturday, Doug and I got ready to go to my mother's apartment for a Kentucky Derby party. My sister Holly was in town visiting from Seattle, my brother Paul and his family had driven up from Iowa, and my little sister and brothers who live here in the Twin Cities would be there as well.
I was supposed to supply the dessert: brownies.
The dogs barked; the mail was here. I opened the front door and found a large cardboard box on the top step. It was heavy. It was from Texas, where my cousin Patti lives. What th....?
I lugged it into the kitchen, sliced through the tape, and lifted out a round red and white tin. It was full of cookies. Kitchen sink cookies.
Oh my gosh.
Patti bakes cookies for a little tea room down the street from her house. She mentioned to me once that the most popular kind was called "Kitchen Sink" cookies, because they had everything in them but the kitchen sink--oatmeal. Pecans. Chocolate chips. Peanut butter. Raisins.
You'd better send me some, I wrote, not meaning it. That was two months ago. And now, suddenly, here they were.
I pried off the lid and ate one. Then I ate another one. Then I slowly devoured a third, while trying to decide what to do.
On the one hand, I had been tasked with providing the dessert for my mother's party, and here I had two dozen or so delicious homemade cookies just fall into my lap. Clearly, I should bring them to Trish's.
On the other hand, Patti made those cookies for me. I am morally obligated to eat them all myself, aren't I?
I thought about this as I ate a fourth cookie.
Then I made my decision.
What did I decide? And what should I have decided?
55 minutes ago