As I was cleaning up today, I found, in the bottom of one of my armoires, a box of Bourbon Cremes.

Finding cookies in a wardrobe is an odd occurrence, I grant you, but it’s directly related to my act of hoarding them away from the light fingers of my ever-munchy husband. My mother gave me this box, and I was determined that every single one of these biscuits was to be mine, mine, mine.

Three-quarters of them were indeed blissfully mine. Then I forgot about them.

It was like finding buried treasure. I brought them out, opened the box, nibbled one. A slight staleness, but when they’re glorious Bourbon Cremes, what’s a breath of stale? The cream filling was still soft and light, and hadn’t hardened in the least.

There’s four left. I’m going to ration them out this afternoon when I eventually flop down on a chesterfield to read, once I’m done with my sewing.

Evidently, I’ll have to pick up another box or so while I’m down visiting my parents at Thanksgiving. This time, I’ll put them in a tin when I hide them, so they don’t grow stale.