The Spider and The Cookie

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The Spider and The Cookie

by

Phoenix Hocking

Dear Joan,

I know this letter may sound a little odd, but here goes anyway.

I have a spider that lives in my bathroom. He’s not very big; I mean, he’s not a tarantula or a black widow or anything like that. He’s just a normal-looking spider.

He’s quite an industrious fellow and has provided me with much entertainment watching him weave his webs while I am … ahem … otherwise engaged.

I just moved into this apartment a few months ago, after Charlie died. I can sometimes go for days without speaking to another living soul, so I’ve kind of gotten used to talking to Harold, that’s the spider. He was here when I got here, hidden away in the corner near the bathtub.

Anyway, one day I was sitting on the porcelain throne, doing my business while Harold was doing his. (Oh dear, I’ve never thought about just where Harold does his “business.” Maybe I don’t want to know.)

My Bridge club’s annual Baking Contest was coming up, and I was talking to Harold about it.

“What am I going to do, Harold?” I said. “I’m a terrible baker.”

Well, you can imagine my surprise when I heard a voice. “Why don’t you bake cookies?” the voice said.

I looked around the bathroom, but the only two living creatures in there were Harold and me.

“Did you talk to me?” I leaned forward and directed my question toward the small spider who was energetically working on his elaborate web.

“Of course I did,” the voice said. The voice was high and squeaky, and kind of rusty sounding, as if it hadn’t been used in a while.

I leaned against the back of the toilet. The lid scraped against the tank, so I straightened up right away.

“Well,” I said to myself. “I’ve finally gone ’round the bend. No hope for me now. Call the little men in the white coats.”

“Oh shush,” the voice said. “You’ve been talking to me for weeks now. Isn’t it time I talked back?”

I sighed. If this was some sort of hallucination, I guess I could think of others that could be worse.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll bite. Why cookies? And what kind of cookies? Nobody brings cookies. I mean, Maureen is a champion baker. She wins almost every year.”

“Exactly. Bake something unexpected,” Harold answered.

I wiped myself and got up. “You just don’t understand,” I said as I pulled up my pants. “These people expect fancy. Why, last year Ellen won with a Croquenbouche! How can I possibly compete with that?”

Harold waited until I washed my hands, then repeated, “Exactly. You can’t compete with that, so why don’t you just bake something you’ll enjoy eating by yourself when you have to bring it home?”

That stopped me in my tracks. Hmmm, there was that. Every year I was stuck bringing home some fancy dessert I’d tried that ended up being a disaster. I was always so disappointed, I ended up just throwing the stuff away. At least this way, I could drown my sorrows in cookies and milk.

I turned around. Harold was still working on his web. “Okay, why not?” I said. “What kind of cookies shall I make?”

He stopped his weaving for a second, then answered, “Toll House. Everybody loves a nice Toll House chocolate chip cookie.”

I wrinkled my forehead. “What would you know about Toll House cookies?”

The squeaky voice sounded sad. “The lady who used to live here made them often. Sometimes she’d share a crumb or two with me.”

“Uh-huh,” I said. “I didn’t know spiders liked cookies.”

“This one does.”

I went into the kitchen and got out my recipe book. I had almost everything, but I was out of vanilla.

“I’m going to the store, Harold,” I called. “You need anything?”

I grinned to myself. If I was going nuts, at least I could have fun doing it.

I heard a high squeaky voice coming from the bathroom. “If you see a sale on some nice juicy flies, bring me home a dozen!”

The following day, I arranged my Toll House cookies on a pretty plate and covered them with Saran Wrap. They looked good. I’d tasted one, and they tasted good. I’d given a crumb to Harold, and he pronounced them just as good as his previous roommate’s.

But my heart sank when I arrived at Ellen’s house. All the fancy desserts were laid out on her dining room table.

Ellen made Petit Fours, all exactly the same size, but each decorated with a different fancy design.

Maureen made a Bouche de Noel, a rolled cake made to look like a log, complete with something that looked like pastry mushrooms on the side.

Harriet brought Hamentashen.

Elena brought a Plum Clafouti.

Janet brought a Tiramisu.

And Sue brought an apple tart, beautifully arranged.

And there, down at the very end of the table, sat my sad and lonely plate of Toll House chocolate chip cookies.

Ellen put her arm around me, giving me a one-armed shoulder hug. “Don’t worry, my dear,” she said condescendingly. “I’m sure they’ll be lovely.”

Just then, Ellen’s four teenage boys came rushing into the room. “Hey, Mom,” one of them said, “we’re all going over to Fred’s to play football, okay?”

“Sure, honey,” she answered.

“Oh look!” he cried. “Real cookies!”

And before a person could say, “What the heck just happened?” the plate, with the cookies on it, disappeared out the door.

“Wow!” I heard one boy say. “These are really good!”

“Yeah, better than all that fancy stuff,” I heard as their voices trailed away.

Later that afternoon, after Bridge was over and the contest had been decided, I went home. The first thing I did was head for the bathroom.

“So, how did it go?” asked Harold.

I dropped my drawers and positioned myself on the throne. “Janet won for her Tiramisu,” I said.

“And the cookies?”

I grinned. “They were the biggest hit of all,” I answered. “They won the only award that really counted.”

“So,” said Harold, “I don’t suppose you found a sale on flies while you were out.”

“No, but I saved you a crumb of Toll House cookie.”

“Thanks,” he said, “just put it on the floor, I’ll have it for dessert.”

So, Joan, there you have it. I suppose you’ll be ready to call the nut squad after you get this letter, but I’m really fine. Harold has encouraged me to try to make peanut butter cookies next time. If they turn out well, I’ll send you a dozen.

Love, your sister, Betty Ann

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