Handing me a fresh-baked hot cross bun one morning, friend Barbara from church said, “I’m sure you and Kathleen will enjoy this.”

“I’m sure” I said sincerely.

But the aroma filled my kitchen, and I hadn’t had my breakfast yet, so with just a little hesitation, I very scrupulously unwrapped it and cut it in half….My half was indeed very good, and Kathleen’s half was safely rewrapped on the counter.

Later, when it was time to go to the Memory Center to be with Kathleen, that other half of the bun was still on the counter, glaring at me. Calling to me.

They eat quite well at the Memory Center, I thought to myself. They get nice desserts and stuff, I thought, as that other half of the bun got unwrapped. And Kathleen will never know about this, as I reached for a plate. Let’s see, about 15 seconds in the microwave ought to be about right to warm it up.

Then I wondered to myself—what will I tell sweet Barbara? Will I fib? Or fess up to my toadiness?

Slam! went the microwave oven door.

Quickly I rewrapped Kathleen’s half of the bun, put it in a sack, grabbed my coat and hastened out the door. Once at the Memory Center, I asked Kathleen right away if she wanted a snack. Hardly waiting for an answer, I took the half bun into the kitchen, cut it in half, heated it up, and served the quarter to her.  She really enjoyed it. Before I could determine whether it had been sufficiently filling to render the remaining quarter up for grabs, I noticed another resident eyeing the proceedings.

Sigh.

I asked the staff if there was any dietary reason that Doris over there couldn’t have a pastry.

“Nope”

Shucks.

Okay. About 10 seconds in the microwave later, and usually-grumpy Martha was chowing down on the last quarter of the hot cross bun, only now there was a wide smile across her face as she looked up at me.

Yeah, I did the right thing, but it was close.

My mom used to make a sort of cake thingy with molasses that we always called gingerbread. Thank The Lord that mom made it fairly often, because it was to die for, but if it had come down to who was going to do the dying, I would have happily ensured that it would be someone else, just so that I could have another piece of her gingerbread. Even when she was older, I could sometimes talk her into baking it, even though by that time, my Barbara could do it as well as my mom, except that somehow, when mom made it, it just tasted better.

Funny how that works.

Um-m-m-m-m . . . . psst; Mr. T. . . . .

                                               yum-m-m-m-m . . . .

                                                                              may I please have a bite?

oh.

                                  sigh.

                                       You are a very good boy,

                                                The Easter Bunny

Speaking of  Easter bunnies...

Chuckle, chuckle, snort . . . . thanks for the chuckles.

J.