“Dude, my babysitter ate all the cookies,” my sister bellows into the phone. “Like seriously ate all of them and left just the crumbs in the bin! Is that crazy?”
“Your holiday cookies? The ones you just made?”
“No, these were the broken ones. I put them in a big bin on top of the frigerator from the husband and I. I packed the good ones away for people.”
My sister went on to explain that she’d initially blamed her husband. He’s a big, burly guy, about 6’2, and enjoys his sweets. So it was fair to accuse him. But when she saw how upset he was about the missing cookies she knew there was only one other option.
“You don’t understand, there was over a dozen cookies in there this am,” she said.
“Whoa, that’s a serious binge-fest your sitter’s having on your watch. Time to buy that teddy bear camera thing and see what else she’s eating.”
“I swear this happened another time too! I made these energy balls and when I got home 6 were missing. I mean I told her to help herself, but 6? Help yourself means like 2.”
“You see that’s the problem with our generation. Our grandmother would offer us cookies and you took one and then maybe tried another one. But you didn’t sit down and binge on 5 or 6 of them.”
“I saw her come in with these new shakes I’ve been drinking too. Don’t you think it’s weird that she’s suddenly drinking the same shake I am drinking?”
“Not unless she thinks you’re looking great after having a baby so she wants to try it. That’s flatterning.”
“Or she helped herself to one of my shakes, tasted it, and now buys them because she’s already been secretly sampling mine.”
“This is all very interesting,” I say, in my best Sherlock voice.
“And the thing is I made her and her family a big tin of cookies. So basically she saved her cookies and binged on mine. That’s selfish if you think about it. She still went home with cookies and I have none-and I made them!”
“We should come up with a name for this…shamefoodeled…foodsnatched…..sitterbinged. This way when I call, you can say I’ve been sitterbinged again or guess who shamefoodeled me again. Yes?”
“Seriously. This is an issue.”
“Yes, food binging is a serious issue.”
“I don’t care about her food binging. I just care when they’re my cookies. Who’s gonna make more now? Me!”
And from there the conversation turned crumbly. Talks of cookies and recipes swarmed through my head, while visions of what those foodsnatched cookies tasted like filled me with dread. For what should the temptation desire me to do, but pick up the phone and dial you-know-who. The Nonni she answered quick and shift, and I knew in a moment the cookies would be legit. On butterballs, on fudge roll, on biscotti and peanut butter blossoms, on mint creams, on fig cookies and almond paste cookies. To the front of my porch, to my living room couch, where Nonni and I would sitterbinge while watching The Elf. We talked of my sister and what approaches she should take-like hiding her food better-far from babysitter intake. And then with our tummies so full and so happy, we smiled and sent my sister a shamefoodeled selfie.
