It's Girl Scout Cookie season. Like every supportive teacher with a sweet tooth, I plan my dessert menu according to my students' fundraisers. Candy bars in the fall, Butter Braid in the winter, and Girl Scout Cookies in the spring.
I was a Girl Scout, but I dropped out when the troop planned its first camping trip. All I remember about my stint as a Girl Scout was a song, "Make new friends, but keep the old. One is silver and the other gold," and a puppet show with a grandmother who kept repeating, "Babes are a bane and burden." I liked the puppet show, but I don't think I understood the definition of "bane" or "burden." And I probably didn't consider myself a "babe" at the wise old age of six.
Of course, I also remember Girl Scout Cookie season. Since we Girl Scouts were the ones selling the cookies, our leaders allowed us to sample the products in order to share our expertise with potential customers. It was one of my favorite Girl Scout activities.
As a teacher, I was delighted when little girls started knocking on my classroom door, cookie order forms in their hands. I was probably my kiddos' best customer, ordering a box of everything (except the sugar-free kind). After I married Dan, I ordered a box of everything and a couple of extra Samoas and Thin Mints.
Sadly, the past couple of years, not one Girl Scout has darkened my doorstep, an unusual turn of events since about 650 kids darken my doorstep every week. I would think these are pretty decent odds. One of those lovely children must be a cookie-selling Girl Scout.
Last year, Dan and I had to buy all of our Girl Scout Cookies from the hyper girls that plant themselves in front of the local supermarket. We made several trips. One evening toward the end of cookie season, Dan returned home, dejected.
"They didn't have any Samoas left, so I bought another box of Thin Mints," he said with a sigh.
Last spring, I announced in all of my classes, "I expect all Girl Scouts to sell me cookies next year. Don't forget! You have all made my husband and me very sad."
They all remembered.
When the first little girl handed me her order form, I marked one of each flavor, fearing - in light of my Girl Scout Cookie dry spell the last few years - that this would be my only chance.
The next day, the girl's mother e-mailed me, thanking me for supporting her daughter and essentially asking me, "Are you sure you want to order all these cookies?"
Of course I did! Didn't she know that I had a growing husband-boy at home, and this was the only Girl Scout Cookie request I had received in - like - four decades?
Then another wide-eyed, smiling face showed up at my door later that week.
I ordered more Samoas, Thin Mints, and Savannah Smiles, a new cookie issued in honor of the Girl Scouts' 100th anniversary. (I was probably about Brownie age when the cookie's namesake, the movie Savannah Smiles, was released.)
At the end of the week, one more little girl brought me her form.
"I want to sell a thousand boxes this year," she exclaimed.
I ordered more Trefoils, Tagalongs, and . . . Samoas. (If you haven't guessed already, Dan's mantra is, "You can never have too many Samoas." By the way, Samoas are still made with hydrogenated oils, but no one seems to care at my house.)
The little girl tried to make me pay on the spot, but I am a Girl Scout Cookie pro. I know from many years of experience that I am supposed to hand the kids their money when they show up in the spring with a plastic grocery bag filled with several pounds of sugary goodness. I gently delineated the entire cookie-selling procedure. She went away penniless - for the time being.
I was afraid she might lose the check before I got my one hundred sixty-four boxes of Samoas.
I was a Girl Scout, but I dropped out when the troop planned its first camping trip. All I remember about my stint as a Girl Scout was a song, "Make new friends, but keep the old. One is silver and the other gold," and a puppet show with a grandmother who kept repeating, "Babes are a bane and burden." I liked the puppet show, but I don't think I understood the definition of "bane" or "burden." And I probably didn't consider myself a "babe" at the wise old age of six.
Of course, I also remember Girl Scout Cookie season. Since we Girl Scouts were the ones selling the cookies, our leaders allowed us to sample the products in order to share our expertise with potential customers. It was one of my favorite Girl Scout activities.
As a teacher, I was delighted when little girls started knocking on my classroom door, cookie order forms in their hands. I was probably my kiddos' best customer, ordering a box of everything (except the sugar-free kind). After I married Dan, I ordered a box of everything and a couple of extra Samoas and Thin Mints.
Sadly, the past couple of years, not one Girl Scout has darkened my doorstep, an unusual turn of events since about 650 kids darken my doorstep every week. I would think these are pretty decent odds. One of those lovely children must be a cookie-selling Girl Scout.
Last year, Dan and I had to buy all of our Girl Scout Cookies from the hyper girls that plant themselves in front of the local supermarket. We made several trips. One evening toward the end of cookie season, Dan returned home, dejected.
"They didn't have any Samoas left, so I bought another box of Thin Mints," he said with a sigh.
Last spring, I announced in all of my classes, "I expect all Girl Scouts to sell me cookies next year. Don't forget! You have all made my husband and me very sad."
They all remembered.
When the first little girl handed me her order form, I marked one of each flavor, fearing - in light of my Girl Scout Cookie dry spell the last few years - that this would be my only chance.
The next day, the girl's mother e-mailed me, thanking me for supporting her daughter and essentially asking me, "Are you sure you want to order all these cookies?"
Of course I did! Didn't she know that I had a growing husband-boy at home, and this was the only Girl Scout Cookie request I had received in - like - four decades?
Then another wide-eyed, smiling face showed up at my door later that week.
I ordered more Samoas, Thin Mints, and Savannah Smiles, a new cookie issued in honor of the Girl Scouts' 100th anniversary. (I was probably about Brownie age when the cookie's namesake, the movie Savannah Smiles, was released.)
At the end of the week, one more little girl brought me her form.
"I want to sell a thousand boxes this year," she exclaimed.
I ordered more Trefoils, Tagalongs, and . . . Samoas. (If you haven't guessed already, Dan's mantra is, "You can never have too many Samoas." By the way, Samoas are still made with hydrogenated oils, but no one seems to care at my house.)
The little girl tried to make me pay on the spot, but I am a Girl Scout Cookie pro. I know from many years of experience that I am supposed to hand the kids their money when they show up in the spring with a plastic grocery bag filled with several pounds of sugary goodness. I gently delineated the entire cookie-selling procedure. She went away penniless - for the time being.
I was afraid she might lose the check before I got my one hundred sixty-four boxes of Samoas.
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