In years past I was involved in an incident, barely worth mentioning, in which I encountered an ill-tempered, furry harbinger of death and disease. I see this as a result of my standing in the way of someone else's bad karma. During a certain trip to
My latest stain is yet another example. For years, Momma and I have argued about the right way to make Preacher cookies. I can see the spark of recognition slowly igniting as you read this. Momma loves them hard, or 'well done.' I love them warm and gooey; a melty, sticky concoction infused with joy and only edible with a spoon. My roommates were seduced to my side by its glorious goodness. Oh yes. There is nothing like a good Preacher cookie. They're not just No-Bakes, they're euphoria. My opinions, being somewhat ridiculous, lead me to have rather high standards when I make them; and sadly, lately I've been losing my touch. The last batch I made was disappointing. This, added with the renewed desire to eat less junk food and lose weight, helped me decide to limit myself to only one or two. The rest were left for Derek. Bless his heart; it takes him forever to eat anything sweet. Cookies, that usually wouldn't last the day, sat on the counter for at least three days in the open air. When you leave Preacher cookies out like that, they become hard as cement; and it finally got to the point that Derek gave up on them. I was attempting to clear them off the counter and into a garbage bag (unheard of, tragic, and unthinkable - I know) when one, feeling a strong desire for retribution, dive-bombed off the counter and nearly cut off the end of one of my toes. It felt like a former Clogger with spike-studded military boots sauntered in just to jump on my toe.
I reacted in the classic style: grabbing my toe and hopping about the kitchen while muttering spells of small words (as if that was going to make anything better). As I calmed down and let go of my foot, I realized I was bleeding. That's right; the falling cookie had sliced a small, but deep, cut on the corner of my toe. I was bitten by a Preacher cookie. Take a moment and enjoy the irony. It took Derek a minute to realize I was serious and get something to clean the blood up and bandage my toe. What's the first thing you do after such an experience? Call your mom. So I did. She couldn't really say anything, but that's probably because she was laughing so hard. She did manage to tell me that this would never have happened if I made Preacher cookies the right way. Why? So I would know they're dangerous? Yes. I have pictures to prove it, but who wants to post a picture of their foot on their blog? Yikes.
Now, I could blame Derek for karma-dodging since he left them out, but it’s more fun to blame my mom. So, after years of arguing, battling, and general disputation; I was felled by an overly-hard Preacher cookie because of my mother's bad Preacher cookie karma.
Was that dramatic enough?