It was that season of life when we had two toddlers, and I wanted to be a stay-at-home FOMO mom. We had bought a modest home in a sweet neighborhood, which was a blessing and a challenge for the financial needs that come with ownership.

My trade off for staying at home during the day meant that I would work some evenings at an upscale steak house down the road for the lovely cash in my pocket earmarked for those unforeseen expenses. Part of my closing duties at the restaurant involved rolling 100 cloth napkins with silverware inside. The evening staff would congregate back in the dish pit area waiting for our tray of sanitized silverware to be put on the stainless steel island.

It was in this environment that I realized people vary. My taste in music was not comparable to the playlist being cranked up on the kitchen boom box. A combination of crude language and innuendo made my face red – partly because of the shock of it and partly because of the anger at being subjected to listening to it at that decibel level.

I had already been given the name “June Cleaver” due to my conservative language and lifestyle choices. The last thing that would work would be to politely ask the dish pit crew if they would mind changing the station to something less offensive – June Cleaver’s go to advice for situations like this.

I began to pay more attention to my co-workers – sweaty, splattered in soapy water with flecks of remaining food, and wishing to be next door at the sports bar playing a game of pool. I began to devise a plan which I thought would create a willing offer for more mainstream radio play.

How I Would Say It

Prior to my next shift, I baked a large pan of homemade brownies, hiding them in a Tupperware container in my personal storage bin upon arrival. When closing duties came up that night, we all settled in at the island. The music was roaring, as was the laughter from the dish pit crew with the addition of raw comedy routines which were now being added in between the songs.

I casually brought out the tub of brownies which immediately caught the eyes of my co-workers. Smiling, I said, “Here’s the deal. If you agree to change the station to something more main-stream when I’m closing back here with you, I will provide homemade brownies for you all”.

The response was at first stunned, then uncharacteristically giddy. Their demeaner completely changed from being posers to one of boy scouts wanting to help a lady across the street. The station was changed to classic rock with a glance my way for approval. The brownies had an incredibly short shelf life, and the atmosphere was transformed to one of comradery, coupled with a sense of family roasts and jokes from the evening’s summary of our shift.

The magic of a sweet tooth bribe had done its job. So well in fact, that a year later at my last night there, I was celebrated with a going away party in the dish pit area complete with flowers and a dessert cook book with the caveat that I return when I could with those brownies and my smile.