Page 20 of Even After Sunset

My excitement kicks up another notch when I notice the mother of my first group approaching the truck again. I wasn’t expecting repeat customers this quickly, and even as I serve the three customers ahead of her (and take note that there are two customers behind her now, too), my mind begins to conjure up the possibility that maybe I’ll sell out of baked goods before the festival is even over. Maybe I’ll grow this into an actual business, with franchises and custom T-shirts with an awesome logo that I’ll design myself in Photoshop. Maybe I’m onto something BIG.

And then:

“I think there’s something wrong with these.” The mother holds her previously purchased bag of cookies across the counter. “We just tried a couple of bites and something’s definitely off.”

“Oh, uh…”

I’m totally blindsided. This is Meryl Pemrose’s fool-proof chocolate chip cookie recipe. My adoptive mother is a seven-star Michelin chef. She owns three restaurants. She had a tv show for a while, and has a zillion books out. These cookies are a sure-hit with literallyeveryone.

I try again.“Are you sure? Is it possible that maybe your son isn’t a fan of chocolate chip cookies? I mean, has he had them before?”

Now she looks annoyed. “He’s a seven-year-old boy. Of course he loves chocolate chip cookies. But these aren’t cookies. They’re… well, I don’t know what they are, but they’re horrible. I had a bite and so did my husband.”

I see the handful of people in line behind her start to shift and lean closer to peer at the bag in her outstretched hand.

“Oh. Okay… I’m so sorry about that.” I take the bag from her and I must look like a deer caught in headlights, because I know there’s a right way to handle this, but it’s totally escaping me right now. “I mean… I don’t— I’m really sorry that you didn’t like them.”

This is not enough, though. I need to say something more. Todosomething to fix this. Fast.

“Would you uh… Would you like to try a different flavor? I have ginger molasses or oatmealor—”

“No. That’s ok.” She cuts me off. And then the distress must be visible on my face because she softens her tone and adds, “It’s fine. I just wanted to let you know. But you should definitely check that batch. Someone could get sick if those cookies have gone off.”

“Definitely. Of course.” I nod and force a smile. “Thank you for letting me know.”

And then she leaves, followed by the dozen or so people who were in line behind her.

I lean forward and peer out the order window one more time, but there’s no one left. I slide the panel shut, draw the curtain and flip the sign to “CLOSED”, then stand there for a moment to re-gain my composure. I allow myself five minutes, and then I spur into action.

I take a bite out of a couple of the cookies. The woman was right: thereissomething wrong with them. It’s salt. They taste insanely salty.

The image of Meryl’s kitchen flashes in my head: the row of matching jars lined along the back of the counter: sugar, flour, salt and tea bags, all in plain glass jars on the counter. I used the wrong jar. I used salt instead of sugar: the classic rookie baking blunder. The kind of mistake Meryl used to warn me about those first few times I baked with her when I was a kid, which just makes it doubly humiliating.

And it turns out that it’s not just the chocolate chip cookies—it’s all of them. Every single cookie variety I pre-baked at home.Which I didn’t even taste-test.Not even one of them. I was so assured by the fact that I was using Meryl’s recipe, that it never occurred to me my own blunder might ruin them. I had all the business and technical bases covered and then messed it all up with the lamest mistake in the books.

I almost drop the cookie in my hand when someone taps loudly against the closed window. There’s a pause and then they tap again. I slide it open to find a girl just a little older than me peering in at me, her boyfriend standing a few steps behind.

“What the fuck are in these cookies?” The girl drops the bag on the counter. “You totally ripped us off.”

She’s drunk. And angry.

I want so badly to pull the window closed again and not have to deal with her. Or any of this. I’m starting to think this whole food truck thing was a terrible idea.

I let out a slow breath, tucking my hair behind my ears, and I force a smile. I apologize to her. About seven times. And explain my humiliating mishap.

She doesn’t care why the cookies were ‘the worst thing she’s ever eaten in her life’: she just wants a refund. And she wants to be compensated. She wants five free chocolate milks.

The whole confrontation is mortifying. Actually, no: it’s demeaning. The way she’s talking to me makes me feel about two feet tall. But I humor her and as much as I hate myself for folding so easily, I agree immediately to her request. If it will make her go away, I’ll give her whatever she wants.

Only it gets worse, because I’ve never processed a refund before and it takes me about ten minutes to figure it out. Which means ten long minutes of Drunk Girl laying into me about how I could have made her sick, and what if she was allergic to salt and had to be rushed to the hospital. And I better hope that no one else ate them who is allergic to salt and maybe I shouldn’t be selling cookies if I can’t even tell the difference between sugar and salt.

I can’t argue with that one. I do want to argue the whole salt allergy accusation though, because I’m pretty sure there is no such thing as a salt allergy. But this is probably not the time to debate. This girl is seriously intimidating. Even her boyfriend looks intimidated by her. He’s been standing behind her the whole time, looking like he wants to melt into the ground. A feeling which I can totally relate to.

I finally figure out how to put the six dollars back onto her bank card and send her off with eight individual cartons of chocolate milk. She leaves looking smug— like she just pulled one over on me. Maybe she did, but I still have this horrible, guilty feeling like I’m the one who pulled one over on all of those other customers who bought cookies before her.

I close the window again as soon as she’s out of sight and pray no one else will come knocking for returns.

Thankfully, they don’t.

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