Crisp and chewy, warm and gooey. There’s nothing quite like a peanut butter chocolate cookie baked in a skillet. Our server brings us our cookie topped with a wobbly scoop of vanilla ice cream and tells us to be careful; the cast iron skillet retains its heat dangerously.
We admire the copious drizzling of salted caramel sauce; it’s probably as dangerous, if not more so. But what’s a bit more sugar when we are already indulging?
I am also indulging in a bit of doodling. I used to sketch a lot as a kid but somewhere down the line I got lazy or got bored or I grew up. All three seem to be terrible excuses now.
Our server doesn’t leave our table immediately. She has seen the drawings in my journal.
“These are lovely, dear. Are you an artist?” she asks.
“No, I’m not. Hardly. I write for a living. Art… well, art is harder.” I try to laugh it off.
She looks seriously at me and tells me, not really questioning, but tells me: “Why not? Who says you can’t write and draw for a living at the same time?”
I smile at her. I don’t have an answer.
As she leaves our table, she announces, “It’d be a shame if you don’t continue to draw.”
I just got schooled but what she says moves me terribly.