It seems I'm pretty well trained. The smell of freshly baked cookies, cakes, pies and other assorted desserts doesn't do much for me anymore. I know, by the very smell, that either the Red Hatters, Bridge Club, Church Ladies, Kiwanis, Book Club, Birthday Club, coffee klatchers, and other friends, and neighbor women will be soon arriving for dessert. DON'T TOUCH is the rule. Leftovers might possibly be available later. This brings to mind the following only slightly apocryphal story.
A very old man lay dying in his bed. In death's doorway, he
suddenly smelled the aroma of his favorite chocolate chip cookie wafting up the
stairs. He gathered his remaining strength and lifted himself from the bed.
Leaning against the wall, he slowly made his way out of the bedroom, and with
even greater effort forced himself down the stairs, gripping the railing with
both hands. With labored breath, he leaned against the door frame, gazing into
the kitchen. Were it not for death's agony, he would have thought himself
already in heaven.. There, spread out on newspapers on the kitchen table was
literally hundreds of his favorite chocolate chip cookies. Was it heaven? Or
was it one final act of heroic love from his devoted wife, seeing to it that he
left this world a happy man? Mustering one great final effort, he threw himself
toward the table. The aged and withered hand, shaking, made its way to a cookie
at the edge of the table, when he was suddenly smacked with a spatula by his
wife. "Stay out of those," she said. "They're for the