I didn’t usually slice a sample of brownies as soon as they came out of the oven but I did this time. Good thing.
The brownies were for our evening Bible study and they tasted like I had drug the eggs through the gutter. I shoved the pan aside and threw together another batch.
And, if it hadn’t been for our older son, that would have been the end of the story.
We were in a hurry that evening, with the meeting plus my husband and I with the younger kids were leaving first thing in the morning for a two-day trip.
Our older son, at 17, was staying home. I didn’t have time to even clean up the bad pan of brownies.
“Don’t worry about those brownies,” I told him. “I’ll take care of it when I get home. Just ignore them.”
“Ok.”
He was trustworthy and I knew he’d be fine home alone. Except for one little problem.
The little problem wasn’t that he got sick. Or that he’d poisoned the dog with the bad brownies.
When I got home, the brownies pan was still setting on the stove. Empty.
“What happened to the brownies?”
He shuffled a little. “I tasted one.”
“Yuck. Those were bad.”
“They were,” he said. “But after the third piece, I got used to the aftertaste.”
“You ate them all?”
He shrugged.
I guess a cast-iron stomach wasn’t too big a problem.
