Brownies were a poplar snack for the adult male father in our house well before the child came along.

I didn’t make them from scratch, just bought the box, got the bowl, spatula, 2 eggs, x amount of water, x amount of oil.  Mix, pour in the pan, bake, cool, cut, put on a paper plate, then zipped up in a large zip lock. ( Not Ms Suzy Homemaker here; a dish we don’t dirty is a dish we don’t have to wash.)

I was a mean mom when the child arrived.  Looking back, I guess it was ok to poison the adult male father with sugar and fat, but I wanted to save the child.  Diabetes runs in his family also as it does mine, so secretly (he never knew), I was his diabetes patrol woman. Away from the sugar, away, away ….

I remember very little of the details other than the cute part of how the young smart thinking child got caught red handed and could say NOTHING… I mean NOTHING in his defense.  Did not even think to blame it on the boy across the street.

Again, I get ahead of myself here.

The child arrived, we went through the near hunger strike of the first night, another day for that one, and managed to all get by another day and another and another ..

Until one day when Mom got distracted while making the brownies that probably clogged the adult male father’s arteries in unkind ways…

Instead of two eggs, I managed to drop a third one in.. oh well, stir it up because it’s only one egg and you can’t pluck it back out and put it back in the shell… move on, stir, bake.. GO!

And so I did.  I presented the baked mistake on a paper towel (saves a dish) and got asked “what happened?” as I entered the kitchen again, so back out I went.

“What do you mean, what happened?  When, where?”

He was there waving a half eaten brownie,  a paper towel, crumbs flying, “This?”

If you can imagine your head cocked to the side, look of puzzlement on the face, with that WHTHellio is this “This”?  … That was me.

“What? What?”

He still was waving, not eating, and said “It’s like cake. Where’s the brownie part?”

I was so ticked off at him, I could have choked him at that moment, but instead I huffed my way over to that recliner, mumbled something probably brutal under my breath, snatched that dam’d paper towel, brownie and all and shouted as I huffed my way to the kitchen trash.

“It was ONE extra egg?  What?  Ruin your life?  Sheesh”  I was so ticked and I have no clue as to why other than … just bad timing I suppose… bad reactions… no empathy… I don’t know, I laugh like crazy now about the whole thing.

That should have been the end of the story, but it wasn’t, and it’s because I should have thrown the brownies away but was so aggravated, threw them, baggie, paper plate, brownies – all, on top of the micro-  let’s see how long it takes them to rot – THEN maybe I’d make brownies again… SO THERE,

Son was not supposed to eat them so they were off limits to him <wink wink> (Mom’s silent stealthy sugar patrol person was on the job, saving that child.)

Each day I glanced at that plate wondering if it was rotting yet, but I didn’t bother to look, just tossed an eye that way.  Yep, still there.   It was probably day 5 when I actually looked at the plate, there were only 3-4 brownies left.  WOW..

So that meant the adult male father  WAS eating them after all OR… someone else didn’t mind the TEXTURE.  That’s actually when I got tickled at the 2 legged mouse in the house.

There were 3 days worth of brownies.. would he notice no one else was helping or would he think no one would notice HIM?  SMH  KIDS… Been there…

I figured I had 3 days to decide how I was going to handle this. And how I was going to come out the winner and he didn’t have to lie, cause , hey, come on… I knew something he didn’t …

I could hardly wait for the afternoon I checked the plate and all that was left was crumbs on a paper plate in a zip lock baggie.  I almost felt like a giddy little girl waiting to open a present, so excited because I knew he was BUSTED BUSTED BUSTED.

I tossed the baggie with the uh, lonely scattered crumbs, evidence on the counter and prepared for the torture I was about to inflict on this poor boy; called out to son, please come here.

It’s really hard to look mean on the outside while giggling like a little kid on the inside, but yeah, it happens, if you’re a parent, you know what I am talking about.

Son child comes out, stops at the other side of bar where the bag is sitting.  His EYES .. That look.

I look at him, I look at the baggie.. I look at him and say something like”don’t eat the last brownie and then leave the trash for someone else, ok”?  His jaw dropped, I could see the denial coming and we stopped.

Hold up … Before he could say anything else I confessed to what gave him away so he didn’t have to say he didn’t eat the brownies we both knew he did… lol  Since I never came up with a script I just rolled with the facts as best I knew.. went something like:

“Honey, I screwed up the recipe”  His eyes got bigger.  I couldn’t help wonder if he thought he had been poisoned.  That would be a bad time to think about things like that.  I went on though ..

“I put in 3 eggs, Your dad said they were too cakey. I couldn’t throw them away but he wouldn’t eat them.  I was going to let them rot.”

I’m not claiming those were the actual words but the facts of the case proved his guilt, what was left besides my turning to leave and saying something like, “how about throwing that away now, ok?” I’m almost positive I would have left him with the “and next time ” line but I don’t remember..

The part I remember as the highlight is those eyes, that shock, that deer in the headlights, “no place to hide”, yeah, you know it..  Priceless memories for a Mom.


Peace Out
Live, Laugh, Always, with Love

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