Here's the Scoop: Dec. 23, 2009

The way the cookies crumble
Each year I ask the question: Should there be a limit on the number of Christmas cookies that one person can consume? The civil rights activist in me responds: No way. Thankfully.
On the other hand, I have noticed cookie consumption by some people that can only be described as gluttonous. Wait, make that: Finger-lickin’, half-a-carton of milk to wash it down gluttonous.
Whatever you want to name it, I have been known to eat more than my share of Christmas cookies. More than several people’s share, in fact. I know it’s a lame excuse, but I simply have no control over my Christmas cookie eating habits. If the cookies are tasty and the milk is organic and cold, count me in for a feeding frenzy.
When I enter a store at this time of year, I don’t have shopping in mind. No, I want cookies — the complimentary cookies that shopkeepers put out as a treat for customers (free always tastes better). Of course, my guess is they expect patrons to only have one or two of these snacks. Silly them.
If I go to a party, I expect cookies to be among the offerings. And I want a lot of them, because I always enjoy trying to determine which types of beer go best with cookies. Not that beer will ever replace the aforementioned milk as the perfect cookie companion, but at a party, it’s good etiquette to improvise.
Receiving cookies in the mail is also a nice way to have one’s sweet tooth satisfied.

Home sweet home
Naturally, the best way to get a ton of Christmas cookies is to marry a good baker. I always find it ironic, then, when I get in trouble for perhaps overindulging in the freshly-made cookie collection. It’s such a compliment to the baker, I always say.
“That’s a crumby excuse for you pigging out on an entire batch of cookies in one day,” I’m told. I could argue, but my mouth is always full.
My lack of control when it comes to sweet treats has also been displayed at the News office on occasion.
Speaking of which, this year’s Office Holiday Cookie Collection surpassed all other seasons. Maybe it’s the feeling that the recession is finally lifting, but we had a pile of cookies that rivaled Slide Mountain.
I’m not even sure where all the goodies originated, but the stack was impressive. Since there was no danger of anyone feeling like they didn’t get their fill, I dove in with a vengeance.
I must admit that it wasn’t long before my sugar-crusted mind lost track of how many cookies I had consumed. Certainly it was in triple figures.
That night, I staggered home and confessed to my wife that I didn’t think there was much danger of me eating any cookies for dessert.
“I need a day or two off,” I mumbled.
As it turns out, I was only about 23 of 47 hours off, depending on how you view my prediction. Sweet.