I’m baking cookies this morning. I had no intention of doing this today.
Five or six years ago, mom bought me this huge, ridiculous, 3-compartment cow cookie jar from a garage sale. It is precisely the type of item that everyone agrees is “just adorable” but that no one wants to own themselves. It is the type of item that, for reasons unexplained, often ends up in my home. (Apparently, my house has that “final resting place for odd pieces of kitsch” kind of look. I bitterly note how the cow jar didn’t end up on mom’s kitchen counter.)
In a fit of January household purging, I decided that the cookie jar had sat in my topmost cupboard for long enough, and so I took out the cumbersome bovine and put it into the consignment basket. Eliza discovered it almost immediately, fell in love with it, and begged ceaselessly to bake cookies to put into it.
I can be a weakling, especially when hit with a barrage of plaintive 4 year old wheedling.
So that’s how I find myself baking cookies that I don’t want to eat, while putting them into a cow cookie jar that I don’t want to own, which is sitting on my counter that doesn’t have enough space for it.
Eliza sure is happy.
Update: The “cowkie jar” fits in nicely with another item that has inexplicably made its way into our home, the “cowp” or “moog”: