Art Imitates Life

Some time ago, back when I was in 7th or 8th grade, I decided to make chocolate brownies. I got out the box of mix and gathered my ingredients. I was very careful, repeatedly checking the directions for proper measurements and instructions.  I poured the batter in the pan and put it in the oven which I had preheated properly. Something didn't look right, too runny. I couldn't put my finger on it.

I called in my older sister and explained the situation. I opened the oven the show her the batter and she asked to see the directions. As I held up the box, insisting I had followed it to the letter, she started to grin. She asked if that was the box of mix I had used. I replied that it was.

She gently pointed out that it was unopened.

Which meant I had completely forgotten to incorporate the dry ingredients.

Which meant it lacked a great degree of substance.

Which explained the runniness and bright color of the batter.

All of which earned me a place in the oral history of the family, a dubious distinction at best.

Why am I sharing this very embarrassing moment with you, gentle readers? Because last night I made this:

As I approached the last ring, I wondered why it was so hard to manage. I looked at the picture and realized my mistake. I had failed to join the six picots that hold the thing together.

Which meant it lacked a great degree of substance.

Which explained the floppiness and sloppy nature of the finished form.

All of which I now share with you, gentle readers, my tat-family.

As I did with the brownies, I went on the finish the star, with a great deal of chuckling and head shaking.

Some things never change.

I have learned that if you can't laugh at yourself, everyone else will laugh at you. I'd just as soon you laugh with me.

If you need me, I'll be making bricks without straw.