Making Sweets for the Sweeties

Oh dear, oh dear. Was it two spoons of vanilla? Or simply two drops? What about the almond abstract? If only I still had my darling recipe book! My treats just haven’t been the same since I lost it. And I cain’t recall all my notes and numbers. My memory isn’t what it used to be, y’ see. I’m always forgettin’ some little something.

I think it was from that mild concussion I got some years ago. One bright, summer day, I was walking down that old dirt road that runs behind my house and out into the woods, when suddenly I heard the most terrifyin’ shriekin’. Roaring like a train and plowing through just as fast was a cyclone! Well of course I threw myself down into a ditch, getting a mouthful of tadpoles in the process. Hands over my head, hair and skirts whipping, I prayed with my eyes scrunched closed and waited. Going by it stole my favorite hat and my best pair of boots, but praise the Lord it left me there.

But then an outhouse got dropped on my head.

I didn’t wake up ‘till a few hours later. Some of the neighbors found me. They said the radio reported the cyclone hittin’ the next county; only a poor woman there had a farmhouse fall on her! Then some brat stole her slippers. Kids today, they ain’t got no respect for no one.

I cain’t help but wonder if it was the same one that stole my neighbor’s prize goose. William’s not too bright and talks to himself, but no man should have his house broke into just ‘cause some riff-raff is bored and has nothin’ better to do. After makin’ off with the gander, that punk—Jack, if I recall right--had the gall to come back after William’s money jar. But ol’ Willy was ready for him that time. He was hidin’ in the bushes and took off after Jack with a two-by-four. And he’s a big guy to boot. You better bet that kid’s britches were soiled by the time he got to the fence. Unfortunately, not only did Jack skedaddle, but Willy slipped and hurt his back. Doctor said it was an enflamed disc or somethin’ like that. He’ll never walk the same again.

Once the media got a-hold of the story, Jack was painted as the poor result of a broken home thanks to an immoral society or some nonsense. His daddy left when he was a baby and didn’t pay child support, his momma was broke and workin’ two jobs, and he’d get his kicks buyin’ “magic beans” with his milk money. So of course he wasn’t robbin’ William because he’s a no good punk, but because he had to support his dear momma! A bunch of people gave them donations. Meanwhile, poor William’s havin’ trouble coverin’ his medical bills. Every week or so, I make a tray of cookies for him.

Maybe I’m just getting’ to be a bitter old hag. I’m sure I did some stupid stuff when I was a youngin’. Nothing malignant, though. The worst I ever did was wear red and chat with wolfish young men when I was supposed to be takin’ sweets to Granny. I had more ambitious girl friends who snuck off to midnight dances when they’d been given chores to do. Oh, I knew exactly what I was doin’ then, which is why I don’t hold much pity for kids like Jack.

Don’t get me wrong, I certainly don’t hate children. I love sweet, well behaved little ones. They’re such a rarity these days, though. I wonder what I would have done had I had any, if I would have been better than Jack’s mother. Or if I would have turned into something like those nasty step-mothers I see on the talk shows, jealous because their step-daughters are prettier than they are.

Well it was never an issue anyway, though, since I didn’t find my prince charming. All of the eligible bachelors were toads.

Ding!

Oh, I nearly forgot about those gingerbread men I had in the oven! Here I am reminiscin’ and day dreamin’. I’d forget my own dented head if it weren’t attached to me. Some of the neighbors think I’ve gone a bit funny ‘cause of the noggin damage. They say I spend too much time with my baking. But I’ve made some interesting projects with my treats and I’ve even won awards and got my picture in the paper. The Grimm Gazette had a half page article about me and the cottage I’d made entirely out of gingerbread and candy. I was quite proud of it.

And the children love it, too. They come from miles away to try to steal a bite. I’ve got two sitting in my parlor right now. Seems their parents kicked them out. It’s a real shame ‘cause they’re suchsweet, plump little darlings.

But I have them now. And if I can remember right—where is that blasted book?!—they should cook real nice at about three-fifty a pound.