Len Robbins

Of the smorgasbord of Chinese food we had that evening, the children were only interested in the fortune cookies.

My nephew popped one open. His grandfather said “What does the fortune say?” Without missing a beat, the five-year-old looked at the small sliver of paper and replied, “Your life will be filled with disappointment.”

“Big Daddy” thought this was hilarious – as we all did. My nephew just made up the fortune.

Why did he create a fortune rather than reading what was actually on the paper?

Methinks two reasons: 1. “Fortunes” in fortune cookies aren’t fortunes at all. They’re often philosophies, or quotes, or bland advice stolen from Hallmark cards – which is no fun whatsoever. Even a five-year-old realizes that.

And 2. He couldn’t read yet.

Add this to the growing list of “things that were different when I was a kid.”

When I read my first fortune cookie, it actually had a fortune in it – a prediction of something that was going to happen to me. For this column, I remember that fortune being: “You will one day grow a wonderful mustache.” Which, by the way, I’m still waiting for in giddy anticipation.

Fortune cookies are supposed to be mystical, a prophecy, sometimes a bit scary, sometimes silly, and fun. It’s supposed to make you forget the cookie is a mangled, tasteless piece of leftover dough.

Here are the last two, most recent, “fortunes” I have received in fortune cookies: “If I bring forth what is inside me, what I bring forth will save me.”

That’s not a prophecy. That’s plagiarism from Tony Robbins (no relation).

The other one was: “Writing is a craft, not an art.”

Again, that’s not a prediction. Nor true, as this column – which is neither craft, nor art – can attest. Although it is writing (technically).

Why did the fortune cookie people in China California Nebraska decide to change the inscriptions in fortune cookies from actual fortunes to crappy new age psychobabble and cryptic adages?

Putting on my grumpy old man hat, I surmise that somebody got mad when their fortune said: “You will meet despair after you encounter a man in a black velvet dinner jacket.” Or it could have been something like “You will become wealthy beyond your wildest dreams,” and when it didn’t happen, somebody complained to the restaurant, then that person complained to the fortune cookie company, and they just decided not to offend anyone anymore with fortune cookies that actually forecast a fortune.

Which makes me sad.

I liked fortune cookies the way they were: Something specific that I could look forward to, worry about, chuckle about as I shared with dinner companions, or ignore completely – usually the latter.

But they’re free – so why should I complain?

© Len Robbins 2024