I got some awesome, home-made cookies yesterday. They were baked by a budding Independent Womyn who charged me TShs 8400 for the pleasure, and hand-delivered in homely tupperware with a hand-written thank-you note taped to the lid. Now that's what I call customer service. Sweet, chocolate chip cookies with the fragrant brown-sugar smell of freshly baked goodness. You know, heart-felt cookies? Nothing in the world tastes like heart-felt cookies. I am not good at maths but: I got twelve cookies and resold two (300 TShs mark-up) for beer money. I gave away one cookie willingly, and one cookie unwillingly and ate one. Twelve minus five is seven, but I got home with only four freshly-baked cookies...
When I was Alma's age, I was three years away from selling cigarettes in the dormitories at my high -school to make enough money to afford the toasted sandwiches and hot chocolate that the boys sold us illegally from downstairs. Alma's cookies are not that kind of contraband, they are nice-girl cookies, everything-I-wish-I-could-have-been cookies, and one of my (perpetually hungry) colleagues stole three of them. On the other hand, it took over six months for someone to help themselves to the lonely peppermint teabag that used to live on the corner of my desk. Mxiiiiii!
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