The cookie debate

Joe and I are of average maturity, or so we like to think. Every now and then something comes up to show us that we, like everyone else, are really just kids on a larger physical scale.

We were heading to an outdoor Shakespeare play yesterday and stopped at Subway to get some dinner to take with us. I explained to Joe, who had gone next door to Starbucks, that the Subway guy had inadvertently switched our cookies. "I'm sure we can sort them out civilly when we get to the park," I said.

"Yeah, we're grownups," he agreed.

Ha ha, we laughed. As if we'd fight over something as silly as cookies.

Ha ha, indeed. No sooner had he gotten ready to take a bite of the chocolate cookie -- my chocolate cookie -- than I started accusing him. "That's my cookie," I said, trying to keep my tone polite. "Remember, I said the guy mixed them up?"

"But I told you to get me the chocolate macadamia nut one," he said.

"They didn't have chocolate macadamia nut ones," I said. "Just macadamia. The chocolate one is mine."

He peered at the cookie and pointed. "No, there's a macadamia right there."

"Those are white chips," I said, my voice rising. I was getting progressively more anxious that he wasn't handing over my cookie. The first thing I used to do when helping kids learn to settle their disputes with each other was to "neutralize" the object they were fighting over by hanging on to it so neither kid could claim it while they worked through their problem. But there was no neutral party at the park, unless you counted the guy sitting next to us, who suddenly seemed to be looking around for a different spot.

"Those aren't chips," Joe said with some disdain. "Look, they're the same as what's in this other cookie that you said is the macadamia one."

"I'm telling you," I said, my voice rising, "the sign on the chocolate cookies didn't say 'chocolate macadamia,' it said 'double chocolate chip.' So I got you the plain macadamia one. THE CHOCOLATE ONE IS MINE."

People were starting to look at us; the man and woman behind us were watching with open interest. We had become the pre-show entertainment. I leaned in closer to Joe and whispered vehemently, "Remember, we agreed we could divide the cookies civilly."

He looked at the cookie, evidently weighing my appeal for rationality and maturity against his certainty that the chocolate cookie was his. I held my breath while he wrestled with this, and then he opened his mouth and took a huge bite of my cookie.

"Told ya he'd eat it," the man behind us said as he sat back in his chair. The woman glared at him and reached into their cooler. She brought out a cookie and extended it to me. "Here, honey," she said soothingly. "You have one of my cookies. They're homemade. And chocolate," she emphasized. She gave the man next to her another glare.

Next time we get cookies, I'll do what any mother or teacher knows is the best solution: get everyone the same kind.