The other day I made brownies. Now, what you must understand is that my brownies always come out wrong. 99% of the time, my brownies could be used as a weapon of mass destruction. They’re a device the government would be wise to use against suspected criminals. When I make brownies, people evacuate. Sometimes they’re soupy. Other times, they’re hard as rocks. Usually when I say, “I’m going to make brownies!” my mom intervenes and says, “Oh… well, how about you get the ingredients and watch while I make them? How about that?”
But today I said to myself, come on, Elodie. Get yourself together. You’re eighteen now, damn it, and is it really so much to ask of an eighteen-year-old in this day and age to make a pan of halfway decent brownies? So I waited until my mother was gone and I went at it. I threw in eggs and brownie mix and water, and I’m telling you, I put my freaking heart and soul into those brownies. I kid you not—blood, sweat, and tears. And I put them in the oven and collapsed on the couch and waited the interminable wait.
And finally—FINALLY—the timer went off and they were done, and I took a bite and oh my God. Words can’t describe the sensation. Those brownies were the physical manifestation of bliss. I swear beams of heavenly light shone down on me in the midst of a Hallelujah chorus. They tasted like hope and freedom and everything that’s right in the world, and I ate one and then another, and then about five more. I curled up on the couch with a glass of milk and my big old pan of brownies, and I ate them until I was on the verge of throwing up, and then I kept going. And then came the sorrow.
There were only about five bites left. Five. Bites. Maybe six if I took small ones. I was in denial because no, no way, there’s no freaking way this is it—I can make them again. But I knew in my heart that I couldn’t, and it was over. These brownies were a miracle the likes of which the world had never seen. They were meant to be enjoyed, not drawn out until they were gross and crumbly and en route to the garbage can in an undignified heap. I owed them that much. I owed them their dignity, and I could sure as hell give them that. And I sure as hell did—I wolfed down those brownies with a vigor heretofore unseen by human eyes. I ate every last crumb. Then I laid down on the floor and groaned a lot because my stomach hurt, but it hurt in the best possible way. And when my mom came home, I said in response to her raised eyebrows, “I had to eat them—I owed them!”
Miracles happen, sometimes in brownie form, and I can’t ask for more than that.