Christmas cookies
As some of you may know, I have spent the last week in the ski resort at Alta, Utah. Whenever we visit, we encounter the same staff with slight variations. My favorite member of the Alta ski resort staff is a gentleman by the name of Greg who waits tables at the Lodge restaurant. He's tall, white-haired, and currently sporting a cast over a broken thumb. This hasn't dampened his smug, humorous spirit, however, (or his enthusiasm for skiing, evidently, but that's another story.) He's the kind of person who can ask as simple a question as "How many for dinner?" and make you feel like he's laughing fondly at you and everything else around him. You just can't help but like the guy.
Good news: I am going somewhere with this! Last night, as we were seated around our table, Greg walked past looking somewhat helpless, carrying a paper plate of asymmetrically decorated cookies and sporting a bouncing entourage of small children. About fifteen minutes later he returned without the children, but still carrying the plate of cookies. I made the mistake of catching his eye.
He approached our table.
"Would you like a cookie?" He asked, offering me the plate. "The kids decorated them earlier and now we're trying to get rid of them."
"I'll pass," I responded, attempting to repress the gruesome images of children wiping their nose-juice all over their creations.
Unexpectedly, Greg asked: "Do you hate children?"
"What?"
"Do you hate children? The children decorated these; now someone has to eat them."
"N-no..."
He pushed the plate under my nose. I took the one that seemed to be spread with the least frosting; a Christmas tree with a couple of silver candy balls and a light spread of yellow frosting. Greg offered the plate to my brother, who wisely took one of the cookies. Greg smiled and wandered off.
My brother bravely took a bite of his, grimaced, and hid the rest under his saucer. Mine remained on my plate, uneaten. When Greg returned, my brother eagerly pointed at my saucer and the untouched cookie. Greg raised his eyebrow at Alex and immediately lifted up his saucer, where the remains of his cookie had been hidden.
"That was just a pitiful attempt," said Greg. "At least balance it on the cookie like you're hiding chewing gum or something." Amid our laughter, he wandered off again, shaking his head.
Fifteen minutes later, the cookies were still uneaten. Greg passed by, cast a reproving glance at our plates, and left again. Shortly after he returned with an excited little girl.
"This is Sophia," said Greg, "she decorated the cookies you guys are eating. See Sophia? They're eating your cookies!"
I am not kidding you, the girl literally jumped around in a circle and ran off giggling.
... I ate the cookie.
Toward the end of dinner, Greg came back, a star-shaped cookie decorated with green frosting in his hand. He took a bite, and chewed pensively for a couple of seconds.
"I was right in the first place," he finally said, "I do hate children." He promptly hid the cookie under my brother's saucer and left to wait another table.
If I get sick from eating that cookie last night I'll know who to blame, but nonetheless, it was worth it.
Good news: I am going somewhere with this! Last night, as we were seated around our table, Greg walked past looking somewhat helpless, carrying a paper plate of asymmetrically decorated cookies and sporting a bouncing entourage of small children. About fifteen minutes later he returned without the children, but still carrying the plate of cookies. I made the mistake of catching his eye.
He approached our table.
"Would you like a cookie?" He asked, offering me the plate. "The kids decorated them earlier and now we're trying to get rid of them."
"I'll pass," I responded, attempting to repress the gruesome images of children wiping their nose-juice all over their creations.
Unexpectedly, Greg asked: "Do you hate children?"
"What?"
"Do you hate children? The children decorated these; now someone has to eat them."
"N-no..."
He pushed the plate under my nose. I took the one that seemed to be spread with the least frosting; a Christmas tree with a couple of silver candy balls and a light spread of yellow frosting. Greg offered the plate to my brother, who wisely took one of the cookies. Greg smiled and wandered off.
My brother bravely took a bite of his, grimaced, and hid the rest under his saucer. Mine remained on my plate, uneaten. When Greg returned, my brother eagerly pointed at my saucer and the untouched cookie. Greg raised his eyebrow at Alex and immediately lifted up his saucer, where the remains of his cookie had been hidden.
"That was just a pitiful attempt," said Greg. "At least balance it on the cookie like you're hiding chewing gum or something." Amid our laughter, he wandered off again, shaking his head.
Fifteen minutes later, the cookies were still uneaten. Greg passed by, cast a reproving glance at our plates, and left again. Shortly after he returned with an excited little girl.
"This is Sophia," said Greg, "she decorated the cookies you guys are eating. See Sophia? They're eating your cookies!"
I am not kidding you, the girl literally jumped around in a circle and ran off giggling.
... I ate the cookie.
Toward the end of dinner, Greg came back, a star-shaped cookie decorated with green frosting in his hand. He took a bite, and chewed pensively for a couple of seconds.
"I was right in the first place," he finally said, "I do hate children." He promptly hid the cookie under my brother's saucer and left to wait another table.
If I get sick from eating that cookie last night I'll know who to blame, but nonetheless, it was worth it.