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| It only LOOKS delicious . . . |
I love raisins.
Especially in trail mix.
Or coated in chocolate.
I should probably point out, here, that
coating in chocolate is not really an accurate test of raisin love.
If you coated a hubcap in chocolate,
I'd eat it.
Moving on . . .
I did not always love raisins. (Even
now, I prefer my cinnamon buns and other baked treats to be
raisin-free.)
It wasn't until after I was married
that I learned to appreciate them.
There is a reason for that.
Which I'm happy to tell you about now.
My brother, George, is two years older
than I.
Throughout our growing-up years, his
prime responsibility was the teasing of his younger sister.
He practised his craft at every
opportunity.
Mercilessly.
And became very good at it.
One day, our mom made cookies.
Something she did a lot.
On this particular occasion, she had
produced mounds of raisin cookies.
They were spread out temptingly across
the table.
The aroma drew my brother and I from
the depths of the house.
“Mmmm. Raisin cookies,” George
said. He turned to me. “I knew that Mom was going to make raisin
cookies today.”
“You did?” I asked innocently.
“Yep. I did,” he said.
“Did Mom tell you?”
“Nope.”
“You can tell by the smell?”
“Partially. But that's not the real
reason.”
“Well, I give up. How did you know?”
He leaned towards me, a big grin on his
face. “I knew Mom was going to bake raisin cookies because I saw
her picking the raisins off the fly-paper at the back door.”
And from that moment on, in fact for
the next twenty years, George had all of the raisin goodies that
emerged from Mom's kitchen to himself.
Smart cookie.
P.S. He also tried to convince me that
my rice was moving.
But that is another story . . .
