Dave: "Will you make cookies? I think it will make me feel better." Poor Dave, he's got a major case of mucous head.
Me: "Don't get near me." Mucous is just about my least favorite form of moisture.
Dave: "I'll get near you if you don't make cookies."
OK, OK sicky dude, I'm on it! Lucky for him, big guy and I had gone to HEB earlier and just happened to pick up the critical cookie ingredients. I measured, I mixed, I made little dough balls, and I cooked them up just right.
I took a plate of 9 cookies to Dave while a second batch cooked to golden perfection. I really wasn't sure of the dosage at that point, but I figured that more was better. A little while later a satisfied-looking Dave brought the empty plate. "Little guy helped," he explained, looking more than a bit guilty.
I'll keep you posted on his recovery. I have the kind of faith that Granny from "The Beverly Hillbillies" had in her moonshine. You consume it and in seven days or so you'll be as good as new.
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