There are a few keys in a relationship: good communication, trust, shared interests and brownie compatibility.
Except in the last area, in order to be compatible, you have to be at odds. If you like the same thing, you're doomed.
I’m an edge person, and I’m fanatical about it. I would pass on brownies before I’d eat a gooey interior piece. Give me a crusty corner, and I’m euphoric. I was the only edgy one in the family, so it wasn’t an issue growing up. It did irritate the snot out of my mom, though, to see my surgical work around the outside of a pan. “Why can’t you just eat them in order?” she’d ask.
Dad doesn’t care for brownies, so it's never been an issue for us. I had a roommate once, though, who also was an edge person, and it got competitive at times. We probably were the only household in town where the outside of bar cookies would go first.
So in addition to all the other worries a mother has – Will he love me? Will he get into a good college? Will he grow up to be an ax murderer? – I fretted about brownies. What if one of the kids turns out to be an edge person? I’d already given up my bread heels to Little Guy. I didn’t want to lose my edges, too.
I knew that, worst-case scenario and they both turned out to be edge people, there was a solution: a pan in a weird, snake-like pattern that guarantees two edges on virtually every brownie.
It’s an expensive fix, though, retailing for $30 and up. It would have wound up costing me a lot more: I’m a bake ware and kitchen gear addict who can’t stop at one item. There’s a reason I set up parental controls on my home computer to block myself from the King Arthur Web site. That company is my crack cocaine.
The first pan of brownies I made, Big Guy let me guide him through. When I made a fresh batch the other night, he insisted on picking his own. Danger, Will Robinson! He went straight for an edge.
I watch in horror as he chewed on the outside, smacking and smiling. I studied him carefully as the edge hit his tongue. Which way would it go?
He spit it into his hand, the "are you trying to poison me?" look on his face. “I don’t like this part.”
I tried not to smile. “Yeah, babes, those are pretty yucky. Just give them to me.”
Copyright 2007 Debra Legg. All rights reserved. -----