Brownie points

On the train home Stephanie Calman ate her children’s chocolate Brownies. I had been prepared to stand up and say she’s not a bad mother, for all her writings on the subject. But now I don’t know.

Stephanie had dragged herself north for a Mother’s Day night with the girls, at my watering hole. The Brownie recipients had given her a cold and she wasn’t feeling well. It was strictly aspirin and water and no pink cocktail for her. Though I’d say Stephanie doesn’t require a drink to party. Even with a cold she fizzes.

Earlier that day Meg Rosoff had tasked me to ask Stephanie if she remembered lunch at one-legged Mary’s apartment ten years earlier. Wow. I wish I had unusual topics of conversation like that. Though in a way I did of course, as I got to borrow Meg’s conversation starter. Thanks. Turned out Stephanie had a lot to say about Mary, who sounds very interesting.

Just as well. Stephanie’s husband was meant to come along, but the aforementioned colds put a stop to any romantic ideas. Which at least meant that our gathering could concentrate on the subject of men and husbands and their possible uses. (No apology to the lone male who strayed into our midst – what were you thinking?)

Stephanie kept fretting about her doggy bag of Brownies for the children. I thought it was rather sweet. And now it turns out they didn’t get any. Mind you, I’d have done the same. Low blood sugar is no laughing matter for a tired bad mother.

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