The cookie-making impulse always strikes at night,
the colder and darker the better.
The scent of chocolate-chip mish-mash is irresistible,
licking off the beaters,
filling the house with cookie-warmth.

You might be sitting on the couch,
(in fact, you probably are)
reading, or watching television,
when it hits you upside the tastebuds:
semi-sweet chocolate waiting for you,
in the cabinet, behind the pots and pans,
hiding from Dad.
(Dad’s not supposed to have sweets;
if you make the cookies, you’ll have to hide them, too,
and you really ought to have made them before he got home from work.)

The thought of those tiny little chips
sets you salivating, and you pull yourself up out of the couch.
How many eggs do you have?
How much butter is there?
Did anyone bother to buy more brown sugar
after you upturned the last bag onto your oatmeal?

You quickly scan the kitchen, the cabinets,
the pantry and refrigerator;
your brain cataloguing ingredients and utensils.
This could work, you think.
Half an hour, you think, and there could be cookies.
And enough milk left to dip them in.

You’re reaching for your apron
when your eye alights upon your book,
turned over-open on the arm of the couch,
or perhaps the television is back from its relentless commercial break.
The blanket sits just so,
beckoning your cold feet
(socks never help, you notice),
and you think,
Well, I can always make cookies tomorrow.