"Why don't you make cookies for me?" he whines as I make a batch for work.

"We don't get through cookies here," I reply. Indeed, they go hard and stale before we reach the bottom of the pile and many are thrown away entirely. It is an old conversation, and one we've been having for at least a year. I say "conversation" figuratively, of course. It's more like he complains and I ignore. See!—I would have been SUCH a good mother!

But it's not just about me preparing goodies, it's about having treats around. I am in charge of groceries, and while I do a poor job of keeping the cupboards from being look-a-likes of Mother Hubbard's, I don't typically stock anything even remotely resembling dessert. "We just don't get through cookies fast enough here!" I defend. Today he hit me with a new one that left me with a wave of righteous indignation so powerful that I felt my nose hairs stiffen and my breath roll forth in incendiary waves—most probably because there was some truth to his nonsense.

"YOU HIDE THEM ON ME!"

I sigh, Oh, not this conversation again, my thoughts groan. I take a deep breath while I choose just the right dismissal and—!

I got nothin'.

A strong believer of the "out of sight of of mind" philosophy, I don't keep temptation in plain view. That, and everything has its place. I'm sorry, but I classify that bag of cookies as snack food and snack food goes in the snack basket on the top of the refrigerator. It bugged me all night, and after the kitchen was clean from dinner and I saw the partially opened bag of cookies in the corner, my pulse throbbed in my eye ticked. They looked untidy sitting just there. They needed a place and I needed to not be caught committing the very crime of which I had been accused.



Truce?