The girl seeking adventure is advised to join the scouts. I’ve never been the military type but thought it might merit the risks. I could join up. Wear a uniform. Promise to be loyal, useful, friendly, courteous, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, and clean. Eventually they’d assign me cookie detail. By then I’d have security clearance. I’d access the recipe for Thin Mints.
I visited my local recruiting office, next to the principal’s suite—only to learn that at seven I didn’t qualify for Girl Scouts. I had to join a lesser unit, Brownies, with a lesser uniform: brown.
Our troop trained in the Multipurpose Room. Our sergeant wore a bunny-pink cardigan and spoke in a bunny-soft whisper. For our first drill, we each received one empty milk carton, one handful of bunny-pink cotton balls, one bottle of glue. Stick cotton to carton; admire “bunny.” No one mentioned Thin Mints. I deserted.
Over time, I got distracted by cookies of higher rank. The Oreo, commander of the mass-market forces. The chocolate chip, general of the home-baked services. The madeleine, admiral of the literary fleet.
At cookie season, I still ordered Thin Mints, first from enlisted girls, later from office moms. (Now, in pandemic times, the snackish consult neither scout nor mom, but a “virtual cookie booth.”) One afternoon I dropped by a local bakery and there, at attention, stood a battalion of Thin Mints. Crisp, glossy, and cheerful.
I requisitioned the recipe. The pastry chef didn’t inspect my uniform or perform a badge count. She accepted enthusiasm for chocolate and mint as promise enough. I folded the recipe into my jeans pocket. I always knew I belonged in civvies.
