I didn’t mean to become a bag lady; it happened because I don’t pay enough attention to what I’m doing when I’m hungry.
During the announcements at church one Sunday morning in August, back when the world was normal, a call went out for cookie bakers to provide the sweet treats that would be sold at the church ladies lemonade stand during the Chamber’s annual Art Show and Craft Fair.
Since I am away a good part of the year and I contribute so little compared to the church ladies who surround me every Sunday, I decided to add my name to the cookie-baker signup sheet in Fellowship Hall.
That’s where we gather after service at the Presbyterian Church to schmooze a little while enjoying the delightful munchies supplied by members, several of whom are famous Island-wide and beyond for their lemon bars, shortbread cookies and snickerdoodles.
Two things get me to the church on time: the Good Lord and snickerdoodles. But not always in that order.
On that particular Sunday, in my haste to get to the food table before all the home-baked goodies were grabbed up, I overshot the cookie BAKER list and inadvertently signed up to be a cookie BAGGER. For a moment I was tempted to scratch out my name. But I was still in church, technically. And what kind of person reneges in God’s House?
Besides, all I had to do was show up on the day before the cookie sale and put the cookies into bags. How difficult could that be? Before I lurched over to the food table I added my name to the baker’s list too, and then treated myself to shortbread and snickerdoodles, my reward for volunteering for double-whammy duty.
Bagging day
On the appointed afternoonI arrived to the beautiful sight of a half-dozen long tables sagging under the weight of boxes, baskets and Tupperware containers filled with every kind of cookie and dessert bar ever invented. It looked as if Betty Crocker, Martha Stewart and the Cake Boss had locked themselves in the church kitchen and had themselves all-night cookie bake off.
When there were about a half dozen bag ladies assembled we put on our gloves, because even before COVID-19, we knew to keep our germs to ourselves, and got to work, gingerly placing the delicate delectables into plastic bags. We used the traditional cookie-bagging secret formula, which I was careful to memorize because the other seasoned baggers were watching me: Four to a bag, unless they’re big, then three, or if they’re small, then five. But if you aren’t sure, do whatever you want.
I purposely ignored my own boring chocolate cookies because I’d been sampling them since the night before, and used my elbow and hip to nudge one of the baggers over to the pile of oatmeal raisin so that I could take command of her lavender shortbread.
When the cookie crumbles
Everyone was very serious as we went about the Lord’s work. I looked at all the other bag ladies. No one was eating any of the cookies.
It wasn’t like when you are bagging in the privacy of your own kitchen — two for the bag, one for the mouth. So I spoke up.
“Gee, it’s really hard not to eat these cookies! Just kidding.” (But I wasn’t.)
One of the more senior bag ladies — some of these gals are tenured — explained the rules. Only the pieces of broken cookies were up for grabs. Unfortunately, there were only a few that were broken, and they weren’t at my station. I had to purposely break two cookies just to sample them. It might have been three. Or four. Only God knows.
Actually, being a bagger was a lot of fun. We talked and laughed. We told clean jokes.
A couple of the ladies at another table even sang while they worked — something churchy I think, or maybe it was a song from the 60s. Whatever. I didn’t know the words, but I hummed along. When I left the church that afternoon I had to brush cookie crumbs from my face and clothes and my hair.
Being an accidental bag lady had been fun and not just because I snuck in a few cookies. I plan to sign up to be a bagger again next time. Especially since I’ve already memorized the secret cookie-bagging formula.
