Cookie Cutting

For my friend Edith the constructing of cookies is a precious thing.

It’s a ritual. It happens in her own kitchen, precisely the way she wants it to happen, every time it happens:

“Wee Eedie presses down the cookie cutter; and then Jay-Jay eats up the left-over chocolate crumbs,” she told me. “Twenty minutes later, we have magic!! What could be more difficult than that?”

(Hit the drumroll, please.)

Now Wee Edie’s best friend, Eustice, whose parents don’t eat anything related to any living animal, is scheduled for a sleep-over. Eustice will be bringing his own pajamas. In a pre-sleepover phone conference, Eustice’s mother has assured Edith, “He’ll eat almost anything… But it’s probably best if he brings his own food. It’s not difficult to cook up. Just use a separate boiler, and let it simmer, in water — no chicken broth.”

Edith said, “I thought we’d  just bake some cookies.”

“Let’s talk some more about that,” Eustice’s mother said. And then the phone went dead…

In such instances, Edith’s wisest option is always: “What if we go to a restaurant that Eustice likes. Would you suggest one?” (That throws the burden back upon Eustice’s mother, who’s the unconventional one in this mix.) “Is there some place where he’s content with the pizza?”

Back home, the baking of cookies may be impossible; and Eustice will probably be accustomed to this insolence.

There will always be the reading of bedtime stories to pass the time.

Everybody goes to sleep, eventually.

No chocolate chips will be left over, eventually.

–John/