When Faced with a Choice of Cobbler

Remember: they’ll know if you choose the blueberry.


There is now a picture of my tongue on the internet, but it’s altogether relevant and appropriate, because it will help you to picture this:

Last night I handed out gift bags at the close of a dinner packed with luminaries.  I did so with blue teeth and a black tongue, stained from the blueberry cobbler offered for dessert.  I tried not to smile and give myself away, but it was difficult when every other person grinned blue and Wonka flashbacks abounded.


At home, while sleepily attempting to plug in my new white noise machine, I accidentally pulled down the curtains stretching across my loft.  I sat back on my bed for a wry “Why do these things always happen to me?” moment, and then a petulant “If I could go back in time, forget the dinosaurs and the American Revolution and The Beatles at Shea.  I just want my curtains back” moment.  Then I plugged in my new white noise machine, turned my back to the windows which would brighten with sun in a few hours, and went to sleep.

When faced with a choice of cobbler, choose the peach.

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