My friend Bob is making a quick stop in Connecticut this weekend. He’ll be staying with Helaine and me Saturday night.
Helaine, being the world’s best hostess, has baked. She’s the world’s best baker too.
There are cookies. There is cake. So I’ve been told.
Where are they? Damned if I know. I’ve looked.
Twenty five years of marriage! Helaine trusts me with everything except baked goods. For good reason. I cannot be trusted around anything with butter in it. I’d be bouncing like a twelve year old on a sugar high by now.
In Geoffspeak cookies does not have a singular form.
I went sleuthing. They are neither in the basement nor the dining room. In the past she has squirreled things away in the half bath downstairs.
Not food? Helaine, you wouldn’t hide food in the bathroom, would you?
I probably won’t actually see the stash until Saturday. She’s that good. They’re that well hidden.
My wife would make a great spy.