~ Deflation ~

A couple of years ago I was playing around with baking and making new recipes for cookies.  I shared the fruits of my labor with my friends, because, I may be fat, but I couldn’t eat all the cookies! (Yes, I could, but this time I didn’t.)

I came up with a cookie so num-num-nummy, that my dear friend, Shirley, suggested I enter it into the Montgomery County Fair’s Baking Contest.  She assured me it would be fun.  She assured me I had nothing to lose.  She assured me I would place or maybe even win!  How could I refuse?

Hey, I’m not immune to ego-stroking.  I’m only human.

So with a light in my eye, I tightened my apron and got to work.  I followed the fair rules and  instructions, made the cookies, entered them, and held my breath.  Never before had I pitted my abilities against anyone else in this arena. It was a mite scary, but I wasn’t daunted.

Yet.

Days later, as we waited for the judging to come, doubt crept in.  I mean, my cooking really wasn’t about quality so much as it was about quantity.   Maybe I was only setting myself up for rejection.  I mean, come on!  It’s not like I’m trained or anything.  I just know what makes my gullet happy, not necessarily a judge’s.  Shirley’s encouragement faded to a distant memory.

And then the call came.

Shirley said I had placed!  My Oatmeal, pecan, white chocolate chip, butterscotch, cinnamon cookie had actually placed in the fair!!!  Sure, it was 5th place, but it was a place, none the less!  I could now tell people I was an award-winning baker!  How could I have doubted myself?  I’m a darn good baker!  I have the backfat to prove it!  And now I would have a ribbon to prove it, too! I wondered what color my ribbon would be.  My ego puffed up so much, I had to wear my stretch pants.  (Though that may have been gas; I’m still not sure.)

My Captain agreed to take me to the fair to see my cookie in its case, and to pick up my ribbon, and my check for $4.00.  (That was the prize amount for 5th place, you see.)  I was so proud, so elated, I was walking on air. (Actually, that might have been gas, too.)

This is what we saw in the Judging Barn:

In between the second and third places, and a little behind, were my beloved Oatmeal, etc., cookies.  And on my entry tag was written “5th Place” on the top corner……but no ribbon.

Someone had stolen my ribbon!  I was incensed!  I ranted about how wrong it was. What kind of psychopathic criminal would steal a person’s ribbon?  That’s like stealing candy from a baby.  Oh the judges would hear about this!  Why weren’t the cases locked, for crying out loud?  Unacceptable! I would get my ribbon somehow, come Hell or Highwater!  I had already made space for it on the wall at home.  What was society coming to that a woman’s baking contest ribbon wasn’t safe?

Troy surveyed the glass case with a furrowed brow,  distracted.  Why wasn’t he listening?  Wasn’t he as irate as I was about this?  What did he think?  Say something!

After deliberating a moment, he turned to me and said gently, “Honey, there aren’t 5 entries.”  What?  “There are only 4 entries.  Someone has made a mistake.”

Lemme get this straight….I got fifth place and there were only four entries?

Ouch.

I snapped my mouth, which had dropped open, shut, climbed down off of my soap box, straightened my hair, and mumbled that I didn’t really want the ribbon anyways.  What would I do with a stupid ribbon?  Only children want ribbons.  Not me.

I never liked the Fair.