Good Things

   My older neighbor next door lives alone but neighbors check in on her when her out-of-town and out-of state children are not with her. She is a delightful lady nearing the century mark, one who enjoys good food.  She enjoys chocolate. She enjoys chocolate a lot. She buys the really good gourmet chocolate, each beautifully wrapped in expensive foil.

   She also enjoys crossword puzzles and can beat the socks off the former English teacher and newspaper writer (the writer of this blog) who brings her plebian food such as chicken casserole or pound cake.

      We've been neighbors for several decades. She likes to eat and I like to cook, so I take dishes (containing  food, of course) to her often. My neighbor, Mrs. B. sits every morning at her antique kitchen table where she quickly works the daily crossword puzzle or reads the newspaper or her daily devotional. 

   From front door to kitchen is the shortest route to join Mrs. B, a route that forces one (if she is polite) to look at the family pictures above the antique sideboard and then to glance down (of course) at the candy jar next to the kitchen door. There is the coveted vessel, the golden grail, the honey pot of delight wherein rests chocolate, chocolate wrapped in red or purple or silver or gold foil, each color foil indicating the flavor of deliciousness within.

    This blogger and possibly other neighbors know that Mrs. B. knows that we know where the chocolate is. "Have a piece of candy when you go," she says.
We do.
    Ahhhh.  Hmmmm.  What might I take to her tomorrow?