R

oy will tell you he likes to cook. What Roy means is that he likes to cook desserts.

“I want to make truffles,” he announced over the weekend.

I want to be supportive of his interests, really I do, but truffles? Are you kidding me?

In the end, the recipe he chose only qualified as one for truffles if the most generous interpretation of one’s understanding of the treat was applied. It involved cream cheese and a whole lot of melted chocolate chips. The resulting mixture was enthusiastically rolled into nickel-sized balls and topped with some sprinkles discovered in the cabinets. At some point, however, the rolling became tiresome and the work was abandoned to their father. Scott promptly took what was left and made balls roughly four times the size of the ones that had gone before. It was over before I knew it.

Roy started the week hoarding upwards of 60 of them in the refrigerator. His siblings informed me that he would only give them one each when they asked. He told them he planned to save them and that he fully expected his supply to last a month. But upon returning home from a business trip last night, Scott emerged from the refrigerator with an empty Tupperware container in his hand. The lid–sealing nothing now–hung off to one side of the box.

“What did this use to be?” he asked.

Perhaps Roy’s estimate for the lifespan of his truffles was overly optimistic.