Maybe it was their sense of style or maybe it was their penchant for badges. Whatever the reason, few of us attending P.S. 104 in Far Rockaway chose Girl Scouting as an afterschool activity. I was more intrigued with the escapades unraveling in Brooklyn Heights between Patty Duke and her identical cousin, Cathy Lane. There was barely enough time to squeeze in an episode before piano lessons or Hebrew School or the torturous wire tightenings of the orthodontist.
Girl Scouts raised flags and recited some sort of motto and wore uniforms. They were prepared and helpful and did good turns. With enough advance notice I too, can be moderately prepared. As for sporting Brownie-brown or scouty-green, my leanings were more towards a black leotard, pink tights and a pair of Capezios. What I didn’t know was that the Girl Scouts of America were smart cookies. The connection between the Scouts and the sweets was totally under my radar.
As a result, the Girl Scout cookie drive was something I successfully avoided as a child. In later years, I attempted to pass this trait on to my children. Master/Master admits that other than the occasional Thin Mint that was smuggled into the house or a wayward Samoa, Girl Scout cookies were never his go-to biscuit.
This year however, is radically different for my son. Working in the corporate arts world where treats lay in wait by the fax-machine, there is more pressure to support the Girl Scouts of Boston. Master/Master explains;
“Growing up, it was very rare for us to have these brown-sash-peddled-biscuits in the house because, well, Mom, you're a baker and your reaction has always been, I DON’T WANT GIRL SCOUT COOKIES IN MY HOUSE!” (That sums it up pretty accurately.)
I am a little more prone to supporting the Scouts and eating some cookies when a ‘general distribution’ email is sent to the entire department from not only my boss, but the Director of the department. If interested, there’s an order form conveniently located in the office. Apparently, I’m interested.
Seeking an order form, I arrive to find the Director of HR pensively looking at the same sweet document. Having forgotten her glasses, I read the choices aloud:
Thin Mint, Lemonades, Tag-a-longs, Shortbread (I had no idea there were so many options) Trios, Caramel deLites, Wait a minute! Caramel deLites?!
Director of HR responds: They’re the ones with coconut.
Master/Master: Oh, you mean Samoas.
Director of HR: They’re called Caramel deLites, here.
Master/Master: Really?!? Oh, okay, thanks.
NMMNP (might I interject): You’re not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy.
Master/Master walked away in disbelief, convinced something was terribly wrong in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. Caramel deLite implies that the majority of the cookie is caramel! Everyone knows a Samoa is coconut all the way…
I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I wasn’t quite sure what made a Samoa a Samoa without Googling it first. More disturbing to me is the spelling of ‘deLites.’ It seems to me that if you are going to go to the trouble of properly spelling caramel, the very least you can do is correctly spell the word ‘delights.’
But as Master/Master likes to remind me, that is something he considers a personal problem, as in I’m the person with the problem. It seems to me the only way to right this wrong, set this Caramel deLite debacle on its ear is to re-imagine the Samoa as a pie. This is something for which I can certainly prepare for. In fact, I'd be delighted.
Professional Pie-isms & Seasonal Sarcasm