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    My father (like myself) is very stingy with his sweets.

    From a very young age I knew that He-Man would not share his ice cream.

   When he had a rough day at work, he would buy a pint of Hagen Daas ice cream and eat it by himself on our stoop.

   God help you if you asked for a bite.

    Anyway, one evening when I was about 10 and my sister was about 16, my father came home with a tub of white chocolate and macademia nut cookie dough. We knew better than to ask for some, so we watched in rapt silence as he portioned out enough dough to make himself two frisbee sized cookies. He then went shuffling through the fridge looking for ice cream, but there was none to be found. Instead when his cookies were done he put the two together, sat down on the couch, and said, very proudly, “I made a cookie sandwich.”

   Mind you, there was nothing in the middle.

   He took a huge bite of his cookie “sandwich” and then started to watch tv with my sister and me. He-man must have been feeling particularly gracious that day (or he noticed the huge puddle of saliva dripping from my and my sister’s mouths) so during the first commerical he took one of his cookies, broke it in half, and gave one to each of us. You know how much I love cookies. I nearly passed out from excitement.

   About half way through the tv show He-Man looked down at his cookie and screamed, “Who bit my cookie!?” Before either my sister or I could respond he said, “Oh I did…when it was a sandwich.”

   When I write my father’s biography I’m going to call it “Sweets and Senility: a Trini Man’s Tale.”

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