I am certifiably insane.
I coordinate a national conference (with a lot of help and never enough) and so the night before each conference, I also bake hundreds of chocolate chip cookies that we put out at our table. Other tables have candies and other give-aways, but there is something so nice about having these home-baked cookies. The problem is that as the cookies get more “famous” and as the conference grows, we need more of them. Seven or eight batches later – and many hundreds of cookies, it’s a job.
I roped Davidi into making some of the mix. I did the baking in groups of three racks at a time – in the oven, out to the table to cool, into large plastic containers for tomorrow. For no logical reason other than wanting to, I was counting the cookies. 53 in one container, 57 in another, yet another and I’d passed 160. 114 in another container and I was in the 270 range with more to pack. And on it went. At one point, Elie grabbed a cookie, called out, “Cookie Monster,” and devoured it in one bite, soon to be followed by another.
Davidi took one, my husband asked sweetly before understanding that anything still on the table was free game, just don’t take from a counted containiner. Shmulik came in and took one and then said, “oh, I forgot. S. said to tell you that he really likes your cookies.” (S. being his commanding officer, for anyone who has joined this blog more recently.)
And then, before I could say anything, Shmulik added, “I told him that I shouldn’t tell you or you’d send him more so he said don’t tell you. He’s really into healthy foods and he said he ate one and then he liked them so much, he ate the rest of them.”
“So take him a few,” I said, “and tell him if it helps, I use brown sugar and whole wheat.”
“Oh, I’ll tell him,” Shmulik said, though I assured him that still doesn’t categorize them as “healthy.”
“Well, I’m going to be on base tomorrow night,” he reminded me.
“So, take more,” I said with a smile. When the last batch was done and cooled, Elie went into the kitchen and found a last large container, bigger than all the others. I was bringing the last tray in and I explained that I wanted to count them. He picked up one cooled batch and dumped it in, “about 25” he said and then added another batch, “now more.”
He took the final batch, put them in the box and said, “a lot more” and laughed.
“I was counting them,” I said with more humor than protest.
“Why?” he asked. “People don’t care how many you bring. They only care how many they eat. So, before you had that much, now you have this much, which is that much plus more.”
God, I do love that kid.
So tomorrow, please tell me the cookies are good – just don’t ask me how many I brought.