Faith
&
Family
An Extra Cookie
Exiting Cheddar’s on Commerce Drive following a late lunch, two longtime friends and I headed on foot toward the nearby Crumbl, a bakery popular for its cookies. The three of us girls had spent the day out of town, shopping for bargains and laughing like we used to as teens, and an oversized, sugary treat seemed the perfect way to top it all off.
Stepping inside, our hair tousled from the wind, the place was momentarily quiet. A handful of aproned women stood near the ovens, plucking baking sheets from racks and boxing up orders, while another busied herself dumping sticks of butter into a commercial-size mixer near the front. The air smelled of flour and sugar and eggs—okay, it smelled like cookies—and we excitedly hustled over to the digital kiosks at the counter to submit our requests. I ordered a chocolate chip cookie for myself and another half dozen to take home—but it was at that point I received the bad news.
“I’m sorry, we only have six of the chocolate chip left,” a perky employee explained, splintering my cookie-loving heart with each word. “You could just choose another kind, or you’re welcome to wait for the next batch, but it’ll be about fifteen minutes.” Grrrr.
For those doing the math, this meant that the majority of my order was ready; it was short only one. Was a single cookie—composed of chocolate chunks at least an inch thick and a visible layer of divinely coarse salt—really worth hanging around for, considering my friends and I still had more places to go and an Airbnb to get back to?
“Okay, I’ll wait.” (What can I say, there isn’t a Crumbl anywhere near where I live, and I really, really love their chocolate chip.)
Stepping aside, I positioned myself in a corner near the Pickup counter that ensured I’d be out of the way. Various customers proceeded to slip in and then right back out with their orders as I waited two minutes, then five, then ten.
At one point, absent-mindedly glancing up from whatever I was looking at on my phone, I watched as the girl I’d spoken with earlier leaned over to talk with the woman at the mixer. Not giving it a lot of thought initially, my curiosity was piqued when the woman’s eyes suddenly locked on mine. Instantly, I deduced that the girl could only have whispered something about me. It made me uncomfortable. Not sure how it was even possible, but had I done something wrong? Had I made a bad impression? Were they annoyed that I’d chosen to wait instead of just choosing a different flavor? Bottom line: surely this was a me thing; somehow, I must have been at fault, guilty of whatever wrongdoing they were surely accusing me of.
A moment later, the girl approached the counter with my order—and another box, too. Smiling, she announced, “And here’s an extra cookie for your wait.”
Oops. In my usual fashion, I’d taken a simple observation and made it personal.
I can’t be the only one, so I’m just going to ask: Why do we do this? Why are we always determining “it” must be about us, often when there’s absolutely nothing suggesting it should be?
For our own peace of mind, we’ve got to stop assuming mankind is out there always thinking the worst of us. We must recognize our own merit.
Granted, from time to time, we’re correct, and a situation is precisely as it seems.
Other times, though? Someone is probably just asking permission to give you an extra cookie.
A resident of McDonough County, Erin Eddy lives in Macomb with her husband, Mike, their five boys, and two zealous Australian Shepherds. She aspires to uplift readers, penning stories of encouragement and everyday life. Her work has been featured on the influential website Her View From Home, as well as the book series Chicken Soup for the Soul. Contact [email protected].
