Spielberg Cookies

Right now I’m eating cookies purchased by Steven Spielberg. They are delicious.

So good, in fact, I may even forgive Spielberg for the latest 'Indiana Jones' installment.

One of the underrated perks of living in LA, and working on the fringe of show business is the intermittent brushes with celebrities. My wife works for a talent agency for composers (they’ve got lots of the biggies – Hans Zimmer, Ennio Morricone, Randy Newman, etc.), and today her office received a gift basket either intended for their client John Williams, or in gratitude for the office’s work on his behalf – I’m not sure which (not that I care). Warm cookies and cold milk (in little bottles!), from a fancy-shmancy place in Hollywood with a clever name and very specific guidelines for ingredients and ordering in advance.

Either way, my wife deftly intercepted them (more likely, she was given them by her boss, but I prefer to imagine her hanging from the roof 'Mission: Impossible'-style, swooping in just as a secretary turns her head to read an e-mail, then soaring back up the zip-line to the ceiling where she escapes through an air conditioning duct just as the secretary realizes the cookies are gone).

So, Spielberg gifted Williams. Williams gifted his office – whether he knew it or not. His office gifted my wife, and she gifted me.

Call it four degrees of Oatmeal Raisin.