There’s a brownie in my frig. Just one. Well, not really one. It looks like one, but the truth of the matter is I like to bake my brownies in such a small dish it ends up being like 2 or 3 brownies thick. I had dinner guests last night, you see. After all the carnage this one lone mass of chocolate goodness remained. It’s wrapped in foil. That’s probably the only reason it’s still there. Had it been clearly visible in plastic wrap there is little doubt my husband would have relieved the brownie of its solitary existence.
So now what? It’s 9:30 in the morning and my husband is gone for the day. The brownie is talking to me, which means I’m either insane or bi-lingual with brownie speak on my list of languages. The brownie is cold and alone. It doesn’t want to go on this way. I hate being cold and alone too. How can I ignore its plight and not do what I can to envelop it in warmth? If I went ahead and ate it, I’m sure it would be the beginning of a long and lasting relationship. We’d be together forever. It would never be without companionship again. It’s hard to know what thigh, upper arm or buttock it will take up residence in, but it will definitely have a home with me. I imagine it would get along well with its neighbors, mashed potatoes, pasta, Oreo and pie. What’s the chance of me charging these boarders rent and retiring a young millionaire?
I am the real pig in this house. I roll my eyes and tell them, especially J, that I can’t believe they are such piggies but in the end, it’s me that will finish off the chocolate syrup and ice cream or eat the last cookie in the cookie jar.
Way to make room for a cold, lonely brownie.
oohhhh, I’d not be able to resist, not for five minutes, especially if there were no body arround to whitness.