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I’d Rather Eat Chocolate-Dipped Chocolate Chip Cookies Than A Baseball Mitt


I don’t know how many times I can make the same joke. Quite a few it seems. But here I go again whining about cookies. Not just any cookie but Chocolate-Dipped Chocolate Chip Cookies. I mean who whines about Chocolate-Dipped Chocolate Chip Cookies and what does that say about that person? Well let me illuminate you.

I am who I am, I am pleased to say. But after 3 1/2 years of punching words into this keyboard and watching them magically appear on the inter-web. I have to admit that sometimes my material runs thin. So I grudgingly turn to cookies. Cookies are popular, but they make me grumpy. Still, I have to admit (grumpily) cookies don’t require any heavy lifting (or in this case heavy cooking) to make me feel well-loved by the blogosphere.

In other words cookies are a no-brainer. I can make cookies in my sleep. I can blather on boringly about them even before my morning caffeine jolt kicks in. Both of these fine facts are well-illustrated in this pointless paragraph.

Which got me thinking. Could I write something passionate and thought provoking about cookies? Could I turn a cookie post into a metaphor for all that’s good in this world and all that’s right in blogland?

Could I? Could I?

Probably not. For me cookies are not a metaphor for all that’s kind and sweet. Cookies represent something a bit dark from my past. So, it’s no secret that I’m not a big fan of making cookies, I say it all the time. Cookies are fussy and repetitive, right? Cookies are for lazy cooks and boring bloggers, right?

Wrong. My problem with cookies on the web, is just that. My problem.

So I check in here and I whine about cookies. But that doesn’t mean I’m not good at making cookies. I was making cookies as a 10 year old. In those days, whenever my mother’s back was turned, I’d crank up the oven and pull out the sugar. In those days making cookies was a clandestine activity. Something to be hidden from the adults. Boys didn’t make cookies wearing their mother’s aprons. Boys played baseball wearing their father’s mitts.

But I have a confession. I buried my father’s beloved childhood baseball mitt in the woods when I was about 10 years old. He gave it to me in a sort of grand gesture. I think he hoped whatever magic it held for him would somehow rub off on me. But I saw that mitt as the enemy, so I buried it. But sadly I buried something else that day. I buried the last childhood chance I would ever have to really bond with my dad. Hell, I buried my only chance at bonding with boys in general. Because it would not be until college that I would ever again feel at ease in the company of strictly male folk.

But cookies were the other fatality of that day. Once that mitt got buried, I knew that making cookies was somehow wrong. Making cookies somehow made me different than other boys.

So when Grumpy Greg gets let loose and you hear me whining about cookies. I want you to know that it’s more complicated than a strict aversion to sticky icing and sparkly sprinkles all tied up in a pink ribbon.

Forgive me if I don’t include the recipe. I am too ashamed. GREG