“I think we can resuscitate the fudge, but the bundt cake’s parents are about to get an unwelcome message by telegram.”
“Ah, come on, it can’t be that bad. We’ll smush it back together.”
BJ stared into the box dubiously. “I don’t think so, it got all wet with something...I don’t know what, but it doesn’t smell right.” He wrinkled his nose and chucked the box and its offending contents into the trash. “It’s all right, I’ll tell Peg it was great and she’ll send another one. Maybe we’ll get lucky next time.”
Hawkeye looked up from his letter to dramatically gasp in mock horror. “You would lie to Peg, Beej? Just to get us some cake?”
BJ kicked back on his cot, settling the box of fudge on his chest. “Ah, ah, ah, it’s not a lie if I’m sure it actually was great at some point. Flattery is the key to a good marriage.”
“Oh yeah? I thought that was ignorance.”
“Well, in this case it’s both.”
“Listen to this, Dad says the re-enactors of Crabapple Cove are on strike. Apparently the straw that broke the camel’s back was the Mayor’s refusal to shell out for new gold braid this year.”
“Ouch, gold braid past its prime; there’s nothing worse.”
“They blame the original seamstresses.”
“Those dastardly seamstresses are always the ones at fault,” BJ agreed heartily around a mouthful of fudge.
“No quality control. Ha! He says they’re picketing City Hall! They have signs that say, ‘Real gold braid does not fade.’. Why didn’t he send pictures?” Hawkeye lamented.
“Cheer up, maybe they’ll still be striking when you get home.”
“Oh, it gets better," he crowed, "They stormed the place and took out a chandelier!”
“You know, Hawk, sometimes I wonder about that town of yours.”