The weekend of May 22, I experienced two highs: first, seeing a former school chum kick Elphabass in the San Francisco production of Wicked; second, inadvertently eating a pot cookie from my mother’s fridge. I will now discuss the latter.
Traditionally, in anticipation of my visits, my mother stocks her refrigerator with health food. This is one of her many ways of spiting me. My sole refuge from organic yogurt and bales of kale has always dwelt at the bottom of her freezer where she maintains a supply of Trader Joe’s Cookie Dough. This time, however, the dough wasn’t there, but cookies were. So I assumed that she had finally baked the dough into cookies rather than, say, cleared it out to make room for her boyfriend’s supply of pot-based pastries. My mistake.