|End of the Season|
"I'm a perfectionist," he said proudly. "That's why I'm disappointed in my peach cobbler. I scoured the internet for the perfect recipe, found it and when I went to put the pie dough on top of the peach filling, it was mouldy. I couldn't use it. Then I remembered that some recipes used Bisquick and I put that on top of the peaches and baked it."
"It's delicious," the dinner guest chirped.
"Really good," said his own mother who seldom missed the chance to advise and criticize.
"Are you fishing for compliments, honey?" queried his wife scaring him with her stfu glare.
"I'm just disappointed," he mumbled as everyone stuffed their faces with the end-of-season, delicious peach concoction.
Later that evening, watching the newscaster talk about the mistaken beating and killing of a Palestinian migrant, the unfortunate loss of some football team or other, and a weather filled with floods, mudslides and insect infestations, he examined his minor disappointment over the peach cobbler incident. He realized that he was damned lucky to have peaches in a world of hurt and crisis. He recalled a wise man saying an attitude of gratitude makes one a happy person. He got a smile from his wife when he said he was glad she liked his peach cobbler. Her smile reminded him of the law of attraction which is the idea that by focusing on positive or negative thoughts a person brings positive or negative experiences into their life.
He took a peek at the recipe he had used, the recipe for disappointment, he thought, and threw it in the trash. I'll be more careful next time, he vowed. Wait a minute. I am never going to make #@!! peach cobbler again. As he turned out the lights before bed, he realized how very lucky he was and couldn't help wishing that his luck was predictable.