So I made cookies the other day, right? (Bah, now he has me saying it.) We had some friends over for gas station pizza and cookies on Saturday. It was a riot.
Well, today I find myself folding the mountainous accumulation of laundry that I tend to do on Mondays or whenever I feel like it. (Who am I kidding?) I look down at the floor beside one of the dining room chairs and there lies the last remnant of a chocolate chip cookie which had, no doubt, been sitting there for at least 36 hours.
I have no idea who dropped the cookie remnant and thus who could have been eating it. No idea at all. It could have been anyone from a small gaggle of people. Some blood-related, some not. But I trust these people. I'd gladly donate a kidney to any of them if need be. And last I heard, none of them had a communicable disease.
And my floor was clean. I had Roombaed it myself just before the event inasmuch as one can Roomba anything one's self. As a matter of fact, my entire house was relatively clean thanks in no small part to my husband who can really get motivated when company comes. (Gee, who can I invite over next weekend?)
So I went for it. Hey, it had a chocolate chip in it. It was a little stale, yeah, but that unmistakable delicioso chocolate chip cookie flavor was still there shining through. I'm shameless. I know it. And I'm not afraid to admit it.
link: cat on a roomba, gas station pizza, found a peanut
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