Connie stood in front of her kitchen island kneading dough on a wooden board. She was making her taralles. It was the hardest part of the job. She knew her husband Rick was watching television because she could see his bald spot just peeking out above the couch cushion. “Hey, Rick, can you finish kneading the dough? My arms are getting tired.”

“The game’s almost over. I’ll be there in a minute.” He turned and raised his head so she could see his face. “You know, Connie, your brother Lou’s taralles are better than yours.”

She pulled out a piece of dough and threw it at him, hitting him right in the center of his bald spot. They both laughed. “Remember the blind taste test you took last summer? Who won?” She asked.

“I don’t remember,” he said.

“Of course not. You couldn’t tell the difference between Louie’s and mine.” She kept kneading and rolling the dough over and over again. Connie’s taralles, made with a perfect blend of spices, were so delicious that she stopped introducing them to friends, years ago. They were addictive to anyone who tried them. For a while it seemed that all she was doing was making taralles. Family and friends couldn’t get enough of them. The recipe though, was a family secret, tracing its roots to Southern Italy.

The doorbell rang. “Get that please,” she said.

Rick got up and answered the door. It was Milt, their next-door neighbor. “Whoa, looks like I came at the right time,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

“Where is he going?” Connie asked. She started rounding the dough.

“Who knows? With Milt’s attention span, he probably went to see the guy across the street.”

“I hope so.” Connie said.

But Milt was back in no time, carrying a large cookie tin. This time he didn’t bother to ring the bell. He just walked in. “You know how I love your taralles, Connie. You don’t have to fill the tin all the way this time. I’m trying to lose weight anyway.”

Rick and Connie exchanged knowing glances. They'd never met a more presumptuous man than Milt. “Sorry, Milt, I can’t this time, I’m sending these to my cousin in Tennessee.”

“All of them?” He put the tin on the counter. “That’s a lot of Italian pretzels to send one guy.”

“Actually, I do keep some for Rick and me. I guess I can give you a couple,” she said. “Maybe the next time I make them, you’ll buy the flour.”     

Rick, who was drinking water at that moment, laughed, spraying some of it on his shirt. He could see that Milt’s feelings were a little bit hurt. As irritating as the guy could be, he had his sweet side. Whenever they jumped into their camper and took off for Denver, for example, Milt watered their flowers and cut their grass. “You know, Connie, I don’t see why you have to send your cousin any taralles. Has he ever sent you any Moon Pies from Tennessee?”

“You are getting on my last nerve Rick. It doesn’t matter whether he sends me anything. What the hell is a Moon Pie anyway?”

Milt, who wasn’t aware that Rick wasn’t being serious and was merely teasing his wife, saw what he thought was an opening. “I know what a Moon Pie is. I can get them for you on line in no time.”

Connie covered the dough with a towel and started scraping the excess dough from the wooden board. She looked at Rick and bit her lip. She wanted so much to laugh, but she knew better. “My cousin isn’t well, really,” she said. “He stays up all hours of the night writing science fiction stories. Then he sends them out to Lord knows how many kind souls. His wife left him for a man who actually listened to her. He was her psychologist, I believe.”

Rick, who was standing in front of the TV, turned toward Connie and Milt. “I thought she left him for the guy who sold them that cremation package.”

Connie lost it then. She tried, while she was laughing, to apologize to Milt, but then she saw that he was laughing too.

“If you don’t want to give me any taralles, just say so,” Milt said. He lifted the towel and took a quick peek at the dough. “You don’t really have a cousin in Tennessee, do you?

“If I give you the money, Milt, will you go get me more flour? I need fennel seeds too.”

“You mean there is a cousin in Tennessee?”

“Milt…”

“I’m not kneading the dough if you make another batch,” Rick said.

“You won’t have to. Milt is going to do it,” Connie said.

Milt’s shoulders slumped. He picked up his tin and took a couple of steps toward the front door. Suddenly he stopped. “Can I have your cousin’s address? I feel a road trip coming on.”