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Instead of looking like normal cookies, these look like damp green hockey pucks that have lost their shape along the way. But when I lift one out, it surprisingly holds together.
It’s also heavier than I expected.
“God dammit.” I curse my growing need to consume it, even as I lift the cookie and take a bite.
My mouth pulls into a frown, but I force myself to keep chewing.
It’s… not good.
I look at the puck, seeing a little clump of unmixed flour that I’ve bitten through, and I take another bite.
The overall wetness of thecookieis off-putting. But the taste is even worse.
I shove the rest of it into my mouth.
For someone who bakes so much, Cassandra is not getting any better.
I move to my fridge and pull out a stick of butter.
It’s too hard to be spreadable, so I slice off little squares and set them on top of the second cookie, then take a large bite.
Slightly better.
Another bite, and some of the cookie juice drips onto my shirt.
“Fuck,” I grumble around my mouthful of the shredded vegetable bullshit.
After shoving the rest of the butter-topped cookie into my mouth, I rip a paper towel free from the roll sitting next to the sink and wipe at my shirt.
I eye the other four cookies still left in the container.
I don’t want to eat them.
They’re hardly edible.
But I’m curious to see how Cassandra photographed them for her food blog.
It didn’t take me long to find the blog, though I was a little surprised that she only started it after moving in next door. No matter how awful the creation is, she always makes them look appealing in the photo, but since she’s gifted me a container of every item she’s ever blogged about, I know the photos lie.
I don’t want to eat the rest.
But I have to.
After moving to the cupboard on the other side of the fridge, I open the door and take out the half-empty jar of peanut butter.
I scoop out a spoonful and do my best to spread it over the top of the third hockey puck.
It doesn’t make it better.
I grab my glass of water off the counter and chug it down, trying to loosen up the peanut and zucchini concrete sealing my jaw shut.
When I finally clear my mouth, I move back to the fridge, and this time, I take out a bottle of beer.
I crack it open and alternate between pulls from the bottle and mouthfuls of cookie until the last three are gone.
My stomach protests at the last bite, but I can’t waste it. It doesn’t matter how bad her creations are, my deep-seated need to consume every bit of Cassandra won’t let me throw them away. And my tastebuds won’t let me go through this torture twice. So, this has become our ritual. Cassandra leaves me something that lands somewhere on the scale of edible, and I binge eat it while standing alone in my kitchen, staring out the window over my sink and imagining I’m eating them in her house, with her next to me.
When all the awful cookies are gone, I tip the glass container over the sink, letting the little pool of green liquid drip out. Then I wash and dry it.
