My sister brought over some treats too, including cookies that she bought solely because they were such an oddity.
Presenting "Traditional Cookies":
I know. The word "traditional" doesn't come to mind when I look at them. The word "green" does.
And they aren't even a fun green. They aren't the shade of green that someone would tolerate in, say, a gummy worm. I didn't try any of them because I worried they'd turn my skin green.
What makes these cookies so remarkable is that the label doesn't make any mention of their greenness.
My sister and I set the cookies out on the coffee table with the other snacks, eager to see if anyone dared try them. And someone actually did, but I don't know who because they ate it while I was watching Scrubs.
And so this morning, I found myself confronted with a nearly full box of Traditional Cookies sitting on my kitchen counter. I couldn't bring myself to throw them all out, but I also couldn't bring myself to do what I would normally do with a bunch of leftover goodies: bring them to work. It's really a delightful experience to set out a tray of cupcakes or cookies or whatever, and spend the whole day hearing coworkers sighing at the sight of them. And then they come up to me one by one, moaning "I hate you," while chomping on a brownie.
But with this batch of green gems, I didn't feel so comfortable. I then began to think of what fun it would be to just leave the cookies on the counter and not own up to them or explain their existence. Or, even better, to remove the cookies and set them on a plate and claim to have made them. Perhaps I could guilt everyone into eating them.
Until I decide what to do with them, the cookies remain on my kitchen counter. Green. Terrifying. Traditional.