I came home from work on my Lunch break today to find my wife in the kitchen doing kitchen-ish type stuff. The smell of recently finished baked goods was heavy in the air; kind of a peanut butter doughy scent.
I looked on one of the counters and noticed a tray of tiny golden-brown cookies each roughly the size of a quarter.
"What are these?" I asked.
"Try one." She responded, as she chopped vegetables for a salad, not turning to face me; Presumably to hide a look of diabolical menace.
Thinking nothing of it, I picked one of the still warm little cookies off of the baking tray and popped it in my mouth.
It was terrible.
I tasted a faint hint of peanut butter, but other than that, the ingredients were indistinct. If I had been on one of those cooking shows where they have you try to identify a recipe by taste alone to determine gets to use their knives and who has to do all of their cutting with a Sacajawea gold dollar, my best guess at the ingredients would look like this:
1 1/4 cups flour
2 tablespoons peanut butter
1 pack of blackboard chalk (crushed)
14 crushed up little cardboard flavor communion wafers
1/2 can brown play-doh
Scrape the inside of a dirty microwave and just mix whatever you get into the batter
Bake 450 degrees for 12 minutes or until hard and lifeless
As I chewed and swallowed I knew I was in a very delicate position. These cookies were practically a hate crime, but saying anything negative about them was not an option. My wife is very proud when it comes to the quality of her cooking and baking.She does not react well if she thinks I don't like something she's made. Were I to even hint that a dish was not agreeable to me you'd think by her reaction that I had called her grandparents toothless hepatitis ridden slave owners or something equally disgusting, like Philadelphia Eagles fans.
No, letting her know that her cookie was an insult to the invention of the modern oven was not an option. Now was the time to maintain my best poker face and find a way out of this situation. I immediately figured I needed to somehow convince her to try one without giving any hint of my own opinion first. Assuming the horribleness of these cookies didn't drive her into a semi-catatonic state, she'd find out they awful for herself, thereby clearing me of the responsibility of being the one to say it. It was going to be a delicate and carefully executed bout of mental sparring to get her to eat one without raising her suspicions, but I knew I was capable of the task.
"What do you think?" She said.
"Why don't you try one." I replied, dodging the question like any master assassin of verbal combat would.
It was a stalemate. We stared each other down, neither one of us prepared to make the next move.
It was like an old western; A clock tower struck high noon, townsfolk closed their shutters and vanished behind the saloon doors, a tumbleweed rolled across the kitchen floor.
Just as I was beginning to think I'd be forced to either admit the cookies were an abomination or eat another one she burst out laughing and informed me that I had in fact just been fed... a dog treat.
To be honest, I was less upset about being trolled into eating an oven warm dog cookie that tasted like dirty cardboard rolled in socks and more grateful that I was off the hook having to tell her something she baked was gross.
Some wives send adorable little note's in hidden in the pocket of their husband's coat for him to find at work. Some wives surprise their husband with something special like a nice meal. My wife tricks me into eating dog biscuits.
Touché, madame. Touché.