For Christmas, I gave David a gift certificate for brownies on request. He’s partial to brownies. We even had them at our wedding reception: brownies and ice cream sundaes. No cake. We decided we were old enough to defy convention and do as we pleased.
(We also had cheese and fruit for the carbohydrate-sensitive, AKA sensible, of whom I am sometimes one).
David never requests brownies, however, nor does he remind me to make them. And since that last bout of whatever it was that was going around (really, I think the antibiotic was at fault) knocked my synapses crooked, I don’t remember them myself. When I do remember, it’s usually time to turn in for the night. As it was tonight. At 9:00 p.m. I looked at the clock, thought, “Bed,” and said, “Brownies.”
I determined that this time, before I turned out the light, brownies would be made. And at 10:00 p.m., they are. One short hour.
The key is in the phrasing.
The gift certificate I gave David promised brownies. Not brownies from scratch. Just brownies.
At 9:05, I tore open a box of Betty Crocker brownie mix (turtle variety), added eggs, oil, and water, and stirred. Thirty minutes in the oven followed by five or ten minutes on a rack followed by another ten on a plate, and they’re ready to be wrapped and put into the freezer.
I’m about to start that last step. One box of brownie mix = one 258-word blog post. That information might come in handy the next time Betty and I collaborate.