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The way I see it, there are basically two kinds of people in the
world: those who like their brownies chewy, and those who like them
crunchy.
OK, there's a third possibility: those who don't like brownies at
all. But let's be honest; how seriously can you take somebody who
doesn't like brownies?
Among the people who really matter, there are only chewies and
crunchies. And I am the King of the Crunchies. Take your moist,
chewy brownie and feed it to those starving people in China that Mom
used to tell me about. I don't want to bite into a brownie unless it
can bite back. It's got to be crispy. Tough. Hard. The kind of
brownie you don't cut -- you break.
Preferably outside.
On the sidewalk.
Assuming your home owner's insurance will cover brownie damage.
I feel the same way about chocolate chip cookies. Thankfully, my
wife, Anita, is willing to over-cook a batch for me when she makes
cookies. But no matter how much I beg and plead, she won't leave
them out so they can get even harder overnight. Instead, she puts
them away with the other cookies, and everyone knows what protective
fraternization will do to a tough cookie. It makes them soft and
sickly – like you’ve already dipped them in milk. And what's the
point of having a chocolate chip cookie that's already been dipped
in milk?
I have other tastes that some may consider peculiar. I like my
toast burned (I prefer to think of it as "well done"). I like my
mashed potatoes lumpy (really lumpy – sort of like potato salad
without the salad). And as we speak, I'm munching on the unpopped
kernels from a bag of microwave popcorn (yes, I know it will hurt my
teeth. I don't care. I like it).
There are probably lots of reasons I like stuff that other people
consider distasteful. I've always thought of my Mom as a great cook,
but maybe she wasn't. Maybe she burned everything and I just got
used to it.
Freudians would probably blame it on some weird libidinous
psychosis. Political scientists would suggest that it's yet one more
evidence of my political incorrectness. And my Sunday School teacher
probably thinks it's because I didn't complete my New Testament
reading assignment this week.
Or last week.
Or the week before that.
But you know what I think? I think I like that stuff because . .
. well, because I like it. And if you don't . . . well, that’s OK –
that leaves more of the good stuff for me. Part of what makes life
fascinating is the differences that exist between people. Such
differences don't make us peculiar. They just make us . . .
different. Interesting. Unique.
Our most cherished freedom, it seems to me, is the freedom of
choice. But what kind of choice would we have if we all acted, felt
and thought alike? If we didn't have different political
perspectives we wouldn't have much choice come Election Day. If we
didn't like different clothing styles it wouldn't be much fun to
shop. If we didn't have different tastes we wouldn't need a menu. If
we didn't have different aptitudes and interests we'd all want to be
newspaper columnists. And believe me, I don't need the competition.
So I say, "Vive la difference!"
That's French for "Hooray for crunchy brownies!"
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