I'm telling you I get more and more air-headed as the years pass by.
As I've probably mentioned before, my calling in the ward is to visit/deliver goodies to each sister on their birthday. It's almost a daily task. As a matter of fact, in the first 15 days of February there were 13 birthdays.
One of Monday's birthdays was a sister on my VT route, so I made her a plate of cookies.
As I finished gathering everything together (the cards, the Hershey kisses, addresses) I asked David to finish the last pan of cookies and to put them in the oven. He did. What a nice boy.
Sigh...
We jumped in the car to go make my drop-offs, leaving the pan of cookies in the oven, and leaving Maddie (too sick to get off the couch) at home.
Fate would I have it that the sisters would be extra chatty, I was gone longer than usual and when I got home the first smell that greated me was the yumminess of the carmel from the Snickers that melted on top of the cookies. The next smell was charcoal.
Yup. The cookies, still in the oven, were burnt to a crisp. Black.
I never used to do stuff like this.
Okay, fine. I did. But it's easier to blame it on my old age.
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