Where’s the Chocolate Chip Cookies?

When do I finally decide enough is enough, abandon Macy’s, and start buying clothes in bulk at Costco? Is there a magical age one reaches when the desire for a waist size that’s less than the size of a rotisserie chicken fades? Does one suddenly begin to crave the comforting, gentle hug of elastic around one’s midsection?

The other day as I was searching the cupboards for something to eat that wasn’t fattening, didn’t taste like tree bark, and would calm my cravings for French fries smothered in chili, nacho cheese and Ranch dressing, I came across an open bag of semi-sweet chocolate chips. My wife had purchased said chips in order to convince me of her storied past as a baker in a well-known Beverly Hills establishment. Not that I didn’t believe her, but the proof is in the puddin’ (or cookie) and I had as yet to sample anything resembling a “Toll House.”

Now, in my mind (and on any cookie-lovin ‘ planet in this galaxy I will presume), an open bag of semi-sweet morsels equals homemade chocolate chip cookies. Without warning I was in bloodhound mode, using every available sense (except “common” I suppose) as I frantically searched for this delicious hidden treasure while trying not to slip on the drool.  Just then my wife came into the kitchen. Our conversation went something like this:

Ken: Where’s the chocolate chip cookies?

Bonnie: What?

Ken: The cookies. There must be cookies. Where are they? I said, wiping the spider-web sliver of drool from my chin.

Bonnie: I didn’t make any cookies.

Ken: But I found the open bag of chips. Why would you open the bag if you weren’t going to make cookies?

Bonnie: I wanted chocolate so I ate the chips.

Ken: Who eats semi-sweet chocolate chips? Aren’t they for making cookies?

Bonnie: STOP CALLING ME FAT!

Weight is a somewhat (pun so intended) heavy subject for most people, and I touched on one of her emotional triggers. We all have them. On Friday night I played a gig (musician’s term for “didn’t get paid”) with my band sMalltime.  Our bass player commented that I appeared to have gained some weight. Hmmm…

Instantly, my inner 15-year-old girl took over. I wanted to scratch his beady little eyes out even though I knew what he said wasn’t true. As a matter of fact, I’ve been on a hardcore (okay, hardcore for a 60-year-old man) training routine for months, was eating well, and felt better than I had in years.

Did I learn something? Of course.  Bass players are stupid.

K.G.