It's 11:15pm and I could be mistaken for the bomb specialist in an action movie, opening the canister slowly, deliberately, fingers pressed strategically to limit the vibration of the thin metal cover, pressing the tin against the counter for stability, gently nudging one side of the lid then the other, measuring the volume of each incremental movement against the murmur of television from the living room where my wife sits, unaware of my kitchen infiltration. (Though she probably heard the telltale squeak of the floor planks as I passed the stove. My house was not designed for Mission Impossible-esque penetration.) Bit by bit the cover rises until one hand lurches and the contents are revealed, a dozen fresh chocolate chip cookies in overlapping layers, a Jenga game with imperfectly shaped pieces. I survey the arrangement like it's a game of pick-up-sticks, selecting the most accessible cookie, gently pressing and prying the cookie away from the layer below with the same care that I applied to the lid. I pull the cookie clear of the container and hold it between my thumb and ring finger as I gently settle the lid back onto the cookie tin, hands pressing top and sides to ensure stealth, silently pressuring the cover into place while I remind myself to step clear of the creaky spot on the kitchen floor. Almost there, but with the focus now on the floor boards, I accidentally catch the edge of the canister with the dangling cookie and DONK! The cookie flops onto the top tin, humiliation moving through me in cinematic slo-mo as the thin metallic sound navigates the hallway to inform my wife of my caper. My cover is blown, and the cookie is ruined, tainted with the taste of shame.

Of course, I eat it anyway. I've grown accustomed to the combination of shame and chocolate.