The brownies were for our evening Bible study and they tasted like I had drug the eggs through the gutter. I shoved the pan aside and threw together another batch.
And, if it hadn’t been for our older son, that would have been the end of the story.
We were in a hurry that evening, with the meeting plus my husband and I with the younger kids were leaving first thing in the morning for a two-day trip.
Our older son, at 17, was staying home. I didn’t have time to even clean up the bad pan of brownies.
“Don’t worry about those brownies,” I told him. “I’ll take care of it when I get home. Just ignore them.”
He was trustworthy and I knew he’d be fine home alone. Except for one little problem.
The little problem wasn’t that he got sick. Or that he’d poisoned the dog with the bad brownies.
“What happened to the brownies?”
He shuffled a little. “I tasted one.”
“Yuck. Those were bad.”
“They were,” he said. “But after the third piece, I got used to the aftertaste.”
“You ate them all?”
I guess a cast-iron stomach wasn’t too big a problem.