Blueraindrop noticed my offhand mention of my son giving a cookie to the rumored-to-be-mean teacher, so I’ll tell the story.
For starters, my kids have Italian blood, and as you all know, one drop of Italian blood is enough to render the entire individual Italian. My children understand that we spread love with food, and in the Philangelus household, the most compact unit of love is the chocolate chip cookie.
The bus drivers are the most frequent recipients of bakery love, but sometimes the teachers receive it too, as do the neighbors and anyone to whom I owe a favor. (Cookies are good placeholders for favors-owed, by the way. They let people know in a delicious way you’re aware you’re in their debt.)
Back in December, one of the teachers was having a holiday party before the holiday break. (Aren’t I PC?) My son came home and informed me that I was being voluntold to make cookies.
I pointed out that if I’m going to bake for 45 minutes, I want to at least eat some of them. He was a little disturbed and back pedalled: he hadn’t really told them I would bring cookies, just that he’d ask me. Okay, that’s better. I found out how many kids would be partaking of our cookies. I’d need about 60.
The next day I happened to find myself in a store that sold cookies, and ever the opportunist, I resorted to second-class love and purchased two boxes of Newman’s Own organic chocolate oreo-type cookies. These I handed off to Kiddo#1 with instructions that he bring them and be merry, and the second box was “just to be sure.”
He returned home triumphant: The students polished off the entire first box of cookies at the party. Ah, but where was the second box?
My son has taken after his mother. Because he carried that second box of cookies and began handing out cookies to everyone in all his classes. In fact, he started hunting down his teachers and handing off cookies to all of them as well. One teacher said he was evil for bringing her cookies, but she gladly took one.
And on the way out to the bus, he passed The Teacher Rumored To Be Mean, and he offered that gentleman a cookie as well, only to find out the man wasn’t very mean at all. That he was, in fact, nice.
Three cookies went to the bus driver. And my son came home with one left in the box, which I let him finish.
And thus the saga of the cookies, and how yet another child is born to the spirit of Italy even though his true bloodline only carries a fraction of Italian blood.