Galvin crop

See, what happened was, the other night Special Agent Jessica Knight was stuck in traffic near the entry gate to the Washington Navy Yard — having a too-cute-by-half semantical squabble with her significant other, Dr. Jimmy Palmer, over the proper name for the French pastry she was enjoying … when she froze.

Now, any loyal “NCIS” viewer worth their pain au chocolat knows that each time an episode is about to go to commercial, the scene typically ends with a black-and-white freeze frame.

What was happening to Jess in this instant, however, was far from the norm. For one thing, it was in full color. For another, my laptop also froze as I searched for the difference between a chocolate croissant and a pain au chocolat.

Well, this left a sour taste. Sure, we’d seen this episode once (or twice) before — we might even have taken sides in the pastry palaver — but this nonsense was something beyond a mere interruption in our regularly scheduled programming.

I scurried to the landline to register a complaint, only to be greeted by the sound of eerie, dead silence … even when I switched to my good ear. It was, of course, the week’s first outage — the one which lasted 10 hours beyond the promised 1:30 a.m. resolution.

As Agent Knight’s stalled car and unfinished pain was replaced by a comforting, if ultimately inaccurate, message that the program we were watching “would resume shortly,” I felt a creeping pain of my own as possibilities came rushing to the fore.

Had Martians invaded? Did the cable company forget to feed the squirrel? Had we neglected to pay our bill?

As the initial panic subsided and we trundled off to bed, I became obsessed with an even more desperate thought:

“Where the hell are my graham crackers?”

See, what happened was, there was this box of this comfort food — which began with divine inspiration experienced by one Sylvester Graham around 1880 (do yourself a favor and don’t trace his legacy) — that had been waiting on a pantry shelf for just such a moment as this.

Until, that is, they disappeared. Without warning, without explanation and without a forwarding address.

As signs of the apocalypse go, this was somewhere between Martians landing and a revolt by hungry squirrels.

The culprit (no, not the cat) readily admitted her guilt. Get this: She had hidden the graham crackers over the weekend “for your own good.” Let that one sink in for a moment.

If the graham crackers were still in the pantry, she reasoned, I would be tempted to devour them in a moment screaming for comfort food. Now, this had never crossed my mind. Imagine eating something that’s only purpose in life was to be eaten?

Sacre bleu!

It’s January, so her tsk-tsk-ing “for my own good” meant the onset of our annual too-cute-by-half squabble over cutting out evening snacks as part of adopting a healthier diet.

The last thing we had agreed to adopt (yes, the cat) wound up ruling the household. Better eating habits, no doubt, would hold sway over our behavioral patterns as well.

This could not, should not, would not stand. I spent the weekend searching the house and garage for the missing box — and, as it turns out, bags of marshmallows and chocolate bars that had arrived at Christmas in a do-it-yourself s’mores kit.

I scoured the obvious hiding spots. I opened every drawer, cupboard, suitcase and container of sufficient size to conceal the kidnapped caboodle. I even checked where I hide things from her — including the one in which she recently found an unapproved jar of peanuts.

“It’s part of my healthier diet,” I protested. “They’re lightly salted.”

As we speak, I have yet to crack the case — which is a shame, considering the events of this week.

Graham crackers, after all, would make a fine peace offering for our new Martian overlords.