On the dining room table sits a plate full of brownies. Mark has been baking again. Sometime around three in the afternoon I heard all the commotion in the kitchen, the pans banging around, the dogs hanging around, and the muffled curses of Mark. Yes, when Mark is in the kitchen the dogs know that is the place to be, because it is a sure thing that something edible will eventually fall to the floor. There are a couple of problems I have with Mark baking brownies, or anything else for that matter. The first is that it's over ninety degrees outside. It's been hitting ninety for the last four weeks and it will hit ninety every day until late September. That's the price you pay for not ever having to endure a Chicago winter. Anyway, it is just too damn hot to be baking. When Mark turns that oven on the air conditioning system is pushed to its limit and the electric meter spins like a Las Vegas slot machine. The second problem I have with Mark baking is my ass. No matter how many times Mark tells me he will help me lose weight, within one day of that promise he's whipping up a batch of fat. Cakes, pies, brownies, he can't help himself. It's bad enough he cooks the most delicious, most ass fattening dinners for me. So there they sit on the table, like the serpent in the fruit tree, luring me in, tempting me. "Alan, come eat us. We won't harm you, we're just a pile of harmless flour, sugar, and chocolate."
So my final word on the subject of Mark's cream cheese, chocolate brownies, is that they are delicious. And if I were Adam in the Garden of Eden, that whole Satan thing would have happened in the first day. And his name wouldn't have been Satan, It would be Mark. And instead of an apple he'd have a plate of brownies.