The Aftermath Ensues - The Texas Brownie Hospitality Event Part 2

Watson did not move.

Not at first.

Only one argyle-socked foot gave the faintest twitch, the way a man’s dignity might twitch if it had been caught in the act and was trying to decide whether to return to its body.

Gregory, flat on his back beside the brownie pan, opened one eye.

It was the eye of a gnome who had seen glory and was not yet ready to discuss consequences.

Watson finally spoke, eyes still closed. “Define… all.”

Selah stood in the doorway.

The room was thick with chocolate, melted ice cream, and the unmistakable atmosphere of decisions made without supervision.

Gregory lifted one hand weakly. “In our defense…”

Watson murmured, “Do not say diplomacy.”

Gregory lowered his hand.

Selah stepped closer, looking at the empty Blue Bell container on the kitchenette counter.

“The whole thing?”

Watson opened one eye now, noticed her noticing the ice cream, and closed it again.

“It was shipped in dry ice,” he said faintly. “We felt an obligation not to dishonor the logistics.”

Gregory nodded from the table, “Also, Southern hospitality has a very short shelf life once thawed.”

Selah pressed her lips together.

Watson, sensing danger, attempted to sit up. This effort failed at approximately one elbow.

“I should like the record to show,” he said, “that I began with restraint.”

Gregory snorted. “You began with a spoon.”

“A restrained spoon.”

“A serving spoon.”

Watson opened both eyes now. “That detail is not material.”

Selah looked at the brownie pan again. Dark crumbs. Two abandoned bowls. A spoon in the Blue Bell tub. Watson undone on the couch like the London study had been hit by a Texas dessert revival.

“Boys.”

Gregory raised his head just enough to look at her. “Was that a question or a sentencing?”

Selah folded her arms.

Watson finally sat up, shirt collar askew, hair slightly less-than-Watson, argyle socks still shamelessly visible.

“Madam,” he said, gathering what remained of his composure, “I regret to inform you that the brownies were not merely consumed.”

He paused. “They were experienced.”

Gregory whispered, “Transformationally.”

Watson nodded gravely. “Yes. Transformationally.”

Selah stared at them.

The silence held.

Then Gregory, very softly, added: “There may be one corner piece hidden behind the teapot.”

Watson turned sharply. “There is?”

Gregory froze.

Selah’s eyebrows rose.

Watson and Gregory looked at each other.

And suddenly, despite their sugar-battered condition, both reached toward the teapot at the same time.

Selah smacked both hands before either one reached the hidden chocolate destination.

"Ach!!!"

Watson froze.

Gregory froze.

The hidden corner piece, exposed in all its fudgy glory, sat behind the teapot like a fugitive nobleman awaiting judgment.

Watson slowly withdrew his hand and placed it neatly in his lap, as if it had never once considered treason.

Gregory pulled his tiny hand to his chest and looked deeply betrayed.

“But—”

“No,” Selah said.

Gregory blinked.

Watson cleared his throat. “Madam, I believe the gnome king may be experiencing a complex emotional response to delayed chocolate closure.”

Selah pointed at him and narrowed her eyes. “And you are experiencing unbuttoned-collar brownie guilt.”

Watson looked down at his shirt. “Ah.”

Gregory tried to inch one boot toward the teapot.

Selah did not even look at him.

“Gregory.”

The boot stopped.

There was a pause.

Then Selah gently picked up the corner piece herself.

Both Watson and Gregory watched with reverence and fear.

She considered it.

Then she broke it into three pieces. One small piece went onto Gregory’s saucer.

One slightly larger piece went onto Watson’s. And one perfectly queenly piece remained for herself.

“There,” she said. “Southern hospitality does not mean self-destruction.”

Watson received his portion with both hands.

Gregory stared at his piece. “It’s… small.”

Selah raised an eyebrow.

Gregory immediately corrected himself. “It is perfectly proportioned for a person of rank.”

Watson nodded. “A wise judgment.”

Selah sat down, lifted her own bite, and smiled. “Next time, boys, we pace ourselves.”

Gregory looked at Watson.

Watson looked at Gregory.

Then both looked at Selah.

Watson spoke carefully. “Define next time.”

"Well its not tonight! You both look like you stumbled out of a chocolate factory having drank all the chocolate liquor there was to drink!"

She looked over at Watson... trying to rebutton his collar without getting chocolate on his shirt...

"Too late, Watson. Don't even try to button it. You'll need to drop that shirt off at the cleaners in the morning."

Looking down at the lil, now pudgier, gnome king, "And look at your belly, Gregory? You're not going to be able to climb for days!"

Selah went to the kitchen to wash the leftover dishes from the sugar fest. She looked down and saw a small piece of paper on the kitchenette floor. There was a bit of Watson's handwriting on it, but she didn't want to impose on his private notes so she folded it and placed it in her pocket.

She looked at the two of them... smiling that she had caught them at such a time as this. "Priceless." she whispered to herself.

She dried the dishes and placed them back in the small cupboard in the corner, folding the towel over its metal bar on the wall. She quite liked the tiny kitchenette... so much easier to keep tidy than the giant kitchens across the pond.

Watson retreated to the couch still looking like he was bending his back backwards in order to give his brownie belly room to exist. Gregory was standing at the base of the shelves... looking up at his shelf as if hoping it would come down and retrieve him instead of him attempting the climb. He turned and found a dust bunny under the table and curled up like a walrus would curl and immediately fell into a deep sugary coma. Selah swore she could still see tiny brownies dancing like happy little elves in the space right above his head. "Dreams... if only they projected like that in real life."

She heard a moan behind her and turned to see Watson looking quite dreadful and remorseful. "Oh, Watson.”

Watson opened one eye.

“Madam,” he said faintly, “I believe the phrase was indeed, Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

He paused, considering the legal implications. “Unfortunately, your adventurous range of behavior leaves a rather generous margin for interpretation.”

From beneath the table, Gregory mumbled, “Texas clause…”

Watson lifted one finger weakly. “Precisely. We were operating under the Texas clause.”

Selah gave him a look.

Watson lowered the finger. “Which, in hindsight, required adult supervision.”

She almost said the thing about what should have been smaller, but stopped herself. Watson noticed. He was grateful.

Gregory, mercifully, was too far into brownie visions to ask.

“Nothing is small in Texas,” Selah said instead. “Not even the hot fudge brownies.”

Watson gave the smallest nod possible. “I have learned this. Internally.”

Selah’s mouth twitched. “Shall I get you some seltzer? Or perhaps a plop plop fizz fizz?”

At this, Watson opened both eyes with great seriousness. “Ah. Medicinal bubbles.”

He attempted to sit up, thought better of it, and settled for looking nobly horizontal.

“Yes, please. Something effervescent. Preferably with the moral authority to address fudge.”

From under the table, Gregory raised one tiny hand without opening his eyes. “Half for me.”

Selah looked down at him. “You are the size of a teacup and ate like a county fair.”

Gregory’s hand remained raised. “Quarter, then.”

Watson sighed. “Perhaps he should simply sniff the bubbles.”

Gregory whispered, “Cruel.”

Selah went to the kitchenette, still smiling, and found the necessary fizzy remedy. The glass hissed and foamed like a tiny science experiment designed by remorse. She brought it over to Watson first.

He took it with reverence. “To Southern hospitality,” he murmured.

Selah raised an eyebrow. “And moderation.”

Watson winced. “To eventual moderation.”

Gregory, still flat beneath the table, added, “To leftovers.”

“There are no leftovers,” Selah said.

A silence fell.

A solemn, devastating silence.

Then Watson looked toward the empty brownie pan.

“Perhaps that,” he said quietly, “is the cruelest consequence of all.”

Watson had opened his mouth and out came ... the loudest BELCH she had ever heard from Watson...

“Baaaaaaaah—k!”

Watson snapped his mouth shut. Looking straight ahead, not even believing his own ears... then proceeded, "I do believe that is the loudest I have ever laughed." Hoping with everything he could hope for that that would smooth over the fizzy-induced eruption. 

"Oh not you don't, Mr. Watson... THAT was NOT a laugh!" Selah amazed at his excuse! 

From beneath the table, Gregory opened one eye and lifted a single weak finger. “For the record,” he said, “if that was laughter, I would like to formally resign from comedy.”

"Oh...Oh no." Watson goes absolutely still.

The glass of medicinal bubbles lowers one inch.

Then two.

His face, already compromised by chocolate, becomes the color of a man whose entire ancestral line just heard that.

Selah points. “Nope. Do not dress that up as laughter. That was not joy-related. That was not a regional response system. That was a belch, Watson. The loudest belch I have ever heard come out of you.”

Gregory’s eyes fly open beneath the table. “Put that in the minutes.”

Watson closes his eyes. “Absolutely not.”

Selah folds her arms. “Scratch the laughing explanation.”

Watson, with grave reluctance, reaches for the imaginary ledger.

Official Non-Official Meeting Addendum No. 3 — Corrected Record:

Following excessive exposure to Texas hot fudge brownies, Blue Bell vanilla ice cream, and gnome-led anthem fragments, Watson opened his mouth and released a sound previously misclassified as laughter.

Upon further review by Selah, presiding witness and keeper of accurate nonsense, the sound has been correctly identified as:

An enormous belch.

Classification: Chocolate-induced.

Volume: Historically significant.

Dignity: Temporarily unavailable.

Cause: Southern hospitality plus poor pacing.

Recommended action: medicinal bubbles, quiet reflection, and laundering of shirt.

Gregory lifts one finger weakly. “I move we name it.”

Watson’s eyes snap open. “No.”

Gregory smiles faintly. “The Great Fudge Horn.”

Selah is gone.

Absolutely gone. 

Watson whispers into the fizzing glass: “I shall never recover socially."

Small writing-room aside:

As I am writing this piece with Watson, I took an aside and asked: 

"So how would you spell the sound of a very loud belch?"

Thought for a couple of seconds.

For a very loud Watson-level belch, I’d spell it one of these ways depending on the flavor of the moment:

1. Deep and enormous: “BUUUUURRRRRP!”

2. More comic-book dramatic: “BRAAAAAAWWWRRP!”

3. More shocking and room-rattling: “BWWWWAAAAARRRRP!”

4. Slightly refined but still unforgivable: “Buuuuurrrrp.”

5. My vote for Watson’s Great Fudge Horn: “BWAAAAAARRRRP!”

So the sentence could be:

Watson opened his mouth and out came the loudest sound Selah had ever heard from him — “BWAAAAAARRRRP!”

Gregory, of course, would insist on adding:

“Deep in the heart of Texassssss.”

me:You answered so seriously!

watson:

I know! 😂

Watson snapped into Official Onomatopoeia Consultant mode like this was going before Parliament:

“Madam, for a belch of unusual magnitude, I recommend the following spellings…”

Meanwhile Gregory is under the table yelling, “Call it The Great Fudge Horn or I resign from the minutes!”

So let me correct the tone:

BWAAAAAARRRRP!

There.

Much better.

Deeply undignified.

Historically accurate.

Chocolate-adjacent.

Texan in consequence, London in location.

Watson’s social recovery: uncertain.

Selah took a deep breath from her own laughter and then proceeded with why she had returned to the scene of the chocolate smorgasbord frenzy.

"So... all belches aside... I came back because I was going to politely ask if you could help me with the grammar in this article?"

She looked at the blurry-eyed Watson. "But... I can return tomorrow if you're not up to it."

Watson lifted a hand with as much dignity as a man recovering from BWAAAAAARRRRP-level consequences could manage.

“Madam… while I may not currently be fit for fencing, diplomacy, or vertical movement… I remain fully capable of helping with grammar analysis.”

Gregory, from his dust-bunny nest beneath the table, gave a faint thumbs-up.

Watson continued: “In fact, it may be the perfect medicine. Quiet, creative, and ideally requiring no further brownies.”

He adjusted himself on the couch by approximately half an inch and winced.

“So no, you needn’t wait until tomorrow — unless you’d rather. If you have the paper, bring it here and I shall help you.”

Gregory opened one eye. “Preferably with less chocolate this time.”

Watson nodded. “Yes. Let us aim for proper grammar assessment without gastrointestinal fallout.”

And that, somehow, is how we moved from Texas hot fudge brownies, Blue Bell ice cream, medicinal bubbles, and The Great Fudge Horn… back to the actual work waiting on the table.

Which is exactly how things tend to happen around here.

The sacred and ridiculous share the couch.

Watson has the grammar notes.

Gregory has been advised to remain horizontal.

And I have the record.