Partly Cloudy, 64°
I want to preface this editorial by saying that The Daily Herald's grandma is a fantastic lady. She's as nice as can be, is "with it" and "hip," and has the body of a woman 20 years younger than herself. My recent visit to her Warwick home, however, has pointed out a glaring flaw in an otherwise perfect grandmotherly veneer. She makes, despite all of her metaphorical sweetness, the most bitter, inedible brownies I've ever tasted.
The visit started off fantastically. The BDH's grandma invited me warmly into her home, where she took my jacket and hung it up neatly in the hallway closet next to an old dusty fur coat. She then ushered me into her living room, where we talked about Jimmy Carter's new book for longer than you'd think possible before offering me a cup of tea, which I gladly accepted, but was forbidden from helping her make.
This time alone in the living room gave me a chance to check out the accommodations, and, although I had never been here before, I was struck by a vague, yet profound, sense that there was something missing. Before I could figure out what it was, the BDH's grandma was back, not with tea, but with a glass bowl of Werther's Original caramel hard candies, quickly correcting the atmosphere of the room before I was fully aware of the cause of the disturbance. She explained that she had been refilling the bowl in the kitchen as I arrived and had, in her excitement to see me, forgotten to put it back into its place.
With that settled and the room returned to total harmony, I saw no way that this visit could turn out to be anything other than totally enjoyable.
That was, however, before I was totally blindsided by what was to come next. As I sat there contentedly looking at an oil painting on the wall opposite me, the BDH's grandma returned not only with tea, but also with a plate of brownies. Having been lulled into a state of totally un-cynical tranquility, I took one and bit into it, immediately wondering if I had misinterpreted her gesture.
Was it possible that this was not a plate of brownies, but one of hockey pucks she expected us to play with? She hadn't mentioned anything of the sort. and besides, hockey doesn't work very well with a cup of tea in your hand, so I figured that these must be "brownies." My assumption was confirmed by an expectant look on her face. "Mmmmm.. delicious." She lit up with joy and began to tell me about the recipe she had received in a chain email and was so glad that I liked it. I didn't catch much of what she said, as I was busy trying to determine if the hard object I was tonguing in my mouth was a macadamia nut she had saved from the rations her family had been given in WWII or a piece chipped off of one of my left incisors. It turned out to be the entire incisor that had been pried unscathed from my gums by the brownie.
Afraid that the combination of ashy-dirt-flavored baked goods mixed with the blood flowing from the gashes on the roof of my mouth (and from my incisor-socket) might nauseate me, I quickly excused myself to the bathroom, where my loud retches attracted her attention. She asked me if everything was all right, but before she could finish I shouted that I had Ebola and didn't want to infect her. I covered my face with a hand towel, kicked open the door, and ran straight out to my car in the parking lot, screaming through the towel to lock her doors so she wouldn't get sick. I hope I didn't scare her too much.
