Some 40 years ago, after stuffing myself at a Chinese restaurant in Albuquerque, N.M., I passed the tiny tray of fortune cookies to my visiting father, giving him first pick. I can’t recall the message on the slip of paper in my cookie, but I’ll never forget the fortune in his, or the story behind it.
After I removed the plastic wrapper, I broke my cookie in half and pried out the rectangle of paper. I looked up after reading it and asked my father what his said. He frowned and peered at the piece of cookie in his hand. No paper protruded from the break.
“Was the cookie empty?” I asked.
He stopped chewing, grimaced, shook his head and slid a finger between his lips. In a moment, he deposited a tan and white lump on his plate. I didn’t have to call in a forensic specialist to identify it as a masticated mass of cookie and paper.
I tried not to laugh, but the woeful expression on his face and the adult beverage I’d had with dinner combined to erase what little self-control I generally exhibit. I chuckled. I giggled. And I laughed. I laughed long and loud. I laughed in a gasping-for-breath kind of way that caused the waitress who had brought our bill to ask if I was OK. I nodded and, as my father attempted to wave me off, asked if they had a policy that allowed them to deliver a second cookie to those who inadvertently ate their first fortune.
