The World According to Scott: I’m so screwed! |


My wife and I never drive or walk past a bake sale without stopping. I know families have rules, but it’s a law.

Some of the most creative driving maneuvers I’ve ever done were when I returned for a bake sale.

You know the story your aunt tells at family gatherings about the guy who drove across the sidewalk, and she jumped out of the way a split second before she was hit, only to see him pull into a church ? Hi!

The excitement of walking into a church and seeing four blue-haired ladies at a table full of pastries is matched only… uh, I’ll tell you about that.

You feel like you’re in a virtual Smithsonian exhibit where you’ve stepped back in time. The smell of your grandparents’ house comes to life. Recipes from years ago, before there were blueberries.

Like the one we were in York, Maine, where one of the lovely old ladies, Myrtle, reminisced about her affair with Lincoln.

Seniors love my jokes. I wait for the inevitable moment when they ask me if they can do anything else for me and I say, “Take my wife, please”, and they burst out laughing and my wife moans and I live my best life.

I’ve always wanted to be rich enough to walk into a crowded bar and yell, “Drinks for all my friends!” They cheer and I’m hoisted onto the patrons’ shoulders and paraded through the village, where every child born for the next century is called Scott, oh, and the dogs too.

Minus that, I like to walk in and buy whatever goodness is left on the table.

Of course, I know the prices well. A ziplock bag of five chocolate chip cookies so good they can make the lame walk again? 75 cents. An apple pie so fresh it can give you a bubbly personality? $1.50. The grand total for my catch is $11.25. Here is $12. Keep the change and use the surplus to build a wing on the church. Another group laugh. It kills, right?

The ladies don’t care when I buy everything, because they always notice that now that all the confections are sold, they can make themselves a cocktail. It’s a bake sale inside a joke. They are already on.

Not every bake sale is a visit to Mayberry. Can you say, bake sales at school?

In those elementary school gymnasiums, Rice Krispies treats are always the star. One time my boys came home with a plate of them and I used them as sponges.

Who purposely chooses Rice Krispies over Tollhouse? Forget saturated fat and corn syrup, it’s one of the biggest food crimes perpetrated on kids today.

Of course, in our time, our mothers smoked like chimneys during pregnancy and even more so once we were born. They popped pills like M&Ms and left the house on bridge nights with a frozen TV dinner on the counter and instructions to “don’t burn the house down.”

But they never shoved a sticky lump of sawdust down our throats and called it a snack. This proves that we are not evolving as a civilization.

You can always feel the growing competition among moms at school bake sales. There is inevitably a mother touting expensive bakery cookies like hers. Hey, Sarah’s mom? Next time tear off the “Cookies by Glenda” sticker.

And I don’t care that Emma’s mom, who made the apple bread, just took you off her Facebook friends list. What worries me is the price of $76.95.

Bake sales to raise money for sports trips are even more boring. The main item being a dry scone. What is the only type.

At Jessica’s mother’s table, they sell an unidentifiable item made without butter, wheat, eggs, nuts, sugar, dairy, salt or flour. Consuming these tasteless tofu-based atrocities will combat all real and imagined allergies. I would rather be stabbed to death with an EpiPen.

Proceeds will go toward a luxury bus and rooms at the Marriott. We traveled on the hood of our dad’s station wagon and camped on the side of the road and we could still kick your ass in any game we played. Be like everyone else and create a GoFundMe page so parents can hate those who haven’t given “enough”.

Currently, we are dangerously short of baked goods at home. My wife worries that many old people have passed away and church bake sales may be a thing of the past. I don’t pray. Because I was dying to tell the ladies about the time a priest, a rabbi and the Pillsbury Doughboy walked into a bake sale.

Scott Kerman is from Methuen and host of Grandstanders Live! Scott can be contacted at [email protected]


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