“Honey,” asks my wife, “do you think your mother would like a little something from the Swedish Bakery for Christmas?”
“No,” says I.
“She told me she likes a little Swedish butter cookie with her morning cup of tea.”
“Well, she might, but I don’t. I’ve been in that store this time of year. It’s a mob scene. I get swept up in this rugby scrum and I’m flailing around trying to find the number machine and everybody tells me how handsome a dog Randy is but nobody tells me how brave or foolish I am for getting in the midst of this mess and I finally locate the number machine and tear off a ticket and then of course I’ve got to find somebody to read me the number and when I do they say ‘85’ just as the clerk shouts ‘42’ and I’m certain I could have got 55 if I’d just been able to see the number machine and walk across the floor and grab a ticket like everybody else does.”
“I’m willing to pick it up for you,” says my wife.
“That’s very gracious of you, Dear,” I say, “but you don’t need to do my dirty work. That’s not fair.” Say, you don’t suppose Amazon sells Swedish butter cookies, do you?”
“There’s the issue of quality and freshness, Dear,” says my wife.
“Are quality and freshness really that important?” I ask. “Come to think of it, the Blind Mice Mega Mall has food gift baskets. How does that sound?”
“I think your mother prefers a nice Swedish butter cookie with her tea rather than cheese and sausage.”
“Picky, picky,” I say. “And Fruit-of-the-Month proved disappointing, as I recall.”
“What’s a mother to do?” asks my wife.
“There’s only one way out,” says I. “I’ll tie on the apron and preheat the oven! Call me The Swedish baker. It can’t be that hard, right? Just like that old Easy Bake Oven, only bigger.”