Today I decided that I wanted to make some delicious cookies. That's all, really. I ended up realizing that the road to Hell is paved with cookies because I swear to God, delicious as they are, they must be Satan's Cookies.
So, to start with, I wanted to look up a specific recipe that I knew I had always been successful with. My mom was online though. She did not want me using the computer to look for the recipe because she was reading a story. So, in a huff, I went off to go read the recipe on the back of the chocolate chip bag. (Tip one, never use the recipe on the back of the bag unless the chocolate chips are not generic. Or, at the very least, make sure that the bag is very clear on it's instructions.) Mine, sadly, was not very clear. An example of the directions was use "the dry ingredients" in the first mixture. It did not inform me, the novice baker, of what "dry ingredient"s are. I found out that sugar, while being technically dry, was not what they meant by "dry ingredients". They need to be more specific.
Now, this would have been bad enough, making the cookies wrong because the directions were misleading. That would be bad on their end, and I wouldn't feel like a complete idiot. Oh no, there's so much more to come.
For one thing, I started mixing the ingredients before I made sure if I had enough of everything they called for. I didn't. I only had about half of the brown sugar, and about half of the white sugar that I needed for the recipe. But it was already mixed with the flour and other "dry ingredients" that I needed. Such as the baking soda, which I mistakingly thought was baking powder. Whoops.
This brings me to my point. I haven't even actually mixed the cookie dough yet, and already everything I've done has been wrong. It was almost enough to make me quit right then and there. If it weren't for my stubborn streak, I definitely would have. Maybe I should have.
So, I began mixing the ingredients. The wrong ingredients, with the wrong amounts. This might not have been so bad. The butter wasn't softened. (Tip two, always use softened butter when using them in chocolate chip cookies. Always.) My recipe did not tell me to soften it, so I didn't think it mattered. I was wrong. When the butter is not softened, it makes it very difficult to mix, and when it finally decides that it will humor you and mix, it mixes too well.
I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that I was just complaining about how it wouldn't mix, now I'm complaining about how it mixes too well, and I should make up my mind about which it was. Maybe "too well" was the wrong way to describe what happened when I mixed it. I think I meant to say that the mixture mixed and became extremely thick and stick, though it was smooth. It was thick and sticky, and it got caught on the beaters. It was so thick and sticky that it literally stopped the beaters from working. I don't mean slowed down, that's (apparently) normal. No. The beaters stopped. On the highest setting the beaters stopped. That scared me. Seriously.
At this point, I was frantic. What had I done wrong? Well, other than doing at least three things wrong, what did I do wrong? There was my answer. So I decided to add some more ingredients to try and fix what I had done. Like more egg. And a little flour never hurt a recipe, did it? Well, shoot, now it looks too dry, let's add another egg. Some more flour. What is this mess? It is cookie dough, and THIS IS SPARTA!
So, I figured I needed to quit mixing it and just put the damn dough balls onto some cookie sheets and bake them before I was way, way behind, instead of way behind, I did just that. I popped those bad boys onto a cookie sheet, getting my hands extremely gooey and gross in the process. Unfortunately the balls were too big (help me God, if you just thought "that's what she said") and my mom thought it would help me learn better if she did not point out my mistakes, so she let me make them ginormous. Fricking wonderful mom, thank you for that life lesson. When someone makes a mistake, no seventy bazillion mistakes, do not tell them they've done so. They need to learn it the hard way; they need to learn what they did wrong and how to fix it for next time. Even if they have no idea what the Hell went wrong, or how to fix it. I love you mom. I love you so much right now.
So, while the first batch of balls (fine, whatever, think it, I don't care) were baking, I decided that I would make myself a salad. Ah, just what I needed, a fresh salad. how delicious and healthy. So I grabbed a bowl and placed it on the counter. Then I grabbed some tomatoes, raisins and a head of "lettuce". Now I put quotations around the word "lettuce" because what I mistakingly believed to be lettuce was, in fact, cabbage. Wonderful. So, I opened the fridge door and put the leafy impostor back. Damn cabbage, trying to sneak it's nasty tasting self into my salad.
While I was mumbling to myself about how much I loathed cabbage, I realized I wanted some extras for my salad, to make up for all of the terrible things I had just gone through. I wanted parmesan cheese, but I couldn't find any so I asked mom, who was still on the computer, if she knew where it would be. She thought I said "long johns", so she said there should be some in the laundry room. Just great, the parmesan cheese I wanted was in the fricking laundry room. She had somehow mistaken my quest for a hard, dry, sharp flavored Italian cheese that is often grated, for warm underwear with long legs.
That didn't help me at all. If she couldn't help me, I'd look for it myself. Which I did. Behind the fruit, in the side shelfs, on the moon, behind the sink, well, you get the idea. Then I found it, right behind another good salad topper, some Ranch dressing that mom brought home from J.D.'s Pizza. I triumphantly reached for the cheese, already picturing how good my salad would be. When I slipped on some water. (Where did that come from I want to know. ) My hand knocked the ranch container onto the floor. But not before hitting my thigh (while I was wearing semi-short shorts) and opening, leaving a lovely trail of creamy, white, stuff on my leg. Now, I knew what it was. I also knew what it looked like. It looked like a certain male fluid had been spurted onto my upper thigh. Absolutely delightful.
At about that same moment, the fire alarm went off.
"BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!" went the fire detector.
"F***, f*** ,f*** ,f*** ,f*** ,f***" I swore, under my breath. Although, at this point, I doubt my mom would have objected too much had I been louder.
The smoke was a thick, swilring haze by this point, and try as I might, I just couldn't get it to stop. I put the fan on full blast, even though it was swinging ominously, like it might fly off and behead* someone at any point. I was even waving a towel furiously in front of the fire detector. It's hideous little blinking red eye and terrible shrieks will probably haunt me in my dreams for weeks to come. No, this whole day will do that, but it'll have it's own little section.
While I was fanning the fire detector, I forgot about my cookies. They were still in the oven. Oh my God! I dropped the towel and ran over to the oven and wrenched open the door, praying they would still be edible. They weren't, but not because they were over done. They were not done. Why did the fire detector go off then?
I learned from my mom that something had been spilled in the oven and not cleaned. I blinked and tried to rub the smoke from my eyes as this sunk in. It probably didn't help that the alarm was still going. I walked away, dazed. The cookies weren't done, the cookies weren't done, the cookies weren't done. But how?
When the fire alarm stopped beeping, I relaxed into a chair, thinking of a happy place to keep from hurting someone, anyone.
"BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!!!"
"What the HELL is that noise!", I howled. It was the timer. I had forgotten to reset the timer since the cookies weren't even half done. Best. Day. Ever.
I reset the timer and went back over to my chair. Then I remembered the salad I had not gotten around to making. I grudgingly got up and trudged over to the counter. Somehow I had forgotten to clean the ranch up, and it was still on my thigh, and the floor, mocking my every move without me even realizing it. I cleaned myself and the floor up, and made my salad, wilted iceberg greens, dry tomatoes, and room temperature cheese, my favorite. No ranch though. I never want ranch dressing again.
Then the timer went off again. I was there in an instant, pushing it back in to stop the noise. My head was aching. My body was aching. The first batch of cookies wasn't even done. How was it possible that I could have had such a bad day already without even having made one batch of cookies? How is that humanly possible?
I checked the cookies and decided they were almost done. I put on an old oven mitt, then proceeded to wait by the oven for about a minute, again abandoning ideas of eating my salad. My poor, poor salad. When would we be reunited? I checked the cookies again and decided they were finally done. I reached in and proceeded to grab the cookie sheet. There was a hold in the oven mitt that I hadn't seen. It was right where my fingers were. My fingers touched metal that had been heated to 375 degrees. If the scream of delayed pain wasn't heard across the glode, color me surprised. I don't even know what color surprised would be, but I wouldn't mind if you colored me at this point. I hope it's orange, orange is my favorite color.
Thank God I managed to place the cookie sheet on top of the oven, even in my somewhat delirious state. I would normally be sarcastic and say that I deserve a cookie at this point, but irony can only be used so much, and I don't know if I ever want to see a cookie again. Much less make or eat one. Blegh, disgusting.
I ran cold water on my burn, then sucked it up and put another batch in.
Another part of my soul, gone. That brings a new meaning to "soul food".
I took the cookies off of the cookie sheet and sat down. I slowly forked my salad into my mouth, reevaluting my life. I must have done something very, very wrong sometime in my life. Or perhaps I was Adolf Hitler in a past life. Or maybe I was Attila The Hun. That would explain how I like Asian men. Wait, no, wouldn't that mean that he was gay? While pondering the choices and possibilities leading up to this point in my life the timer buzzed again. I jerked up , disoriented for a moment, before I got up and turned the timer off.
This time the cookies were done. I put a different oven mitt on, learning from past errors, and took them out, then put another batch in. I was almost done and literally thanking God.
About the time I set the oven timer the fire detector went off again.
"BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!" It shrieked.
"WHY?! WHY?! WHY?! Why? Why? Whywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhy...", I cried. Tears running down my face, while laughing hysterically. I fanned the towel in front of it, wondering if the God I had just been thanking actually existed. My laughter was echoing hollowly in my own ears as the alarm kept going off. Maybe he only existed for people who weren't Hitler or Attila the Hun in past lives. Maybe I get no God. Maybe these cookies better be the best damn cookies anyone has ever tasted, because anyone who tells me otherwise is going regret it. Just like I'm beginning to regret my life.
*Note: No one was beheaded in the making of Satan's cookies, though hopes and dreams were sucked from my body in the long, achingly slow process.
**Never, ever, evereverevereverEVER think or say that!
----------------
Now playing:
Linkin Park - Given Up
Three Days Grace - Get Out Alive
Linkin Park - Bleed It Out
Three Days Grace - It's All Over
via FoxyTunes
Now, this would have been bad enough, making the cookies wrong because the directions were misleading. That would be bad on their end, and I wouldn't feel like a complete idiot. Oh no, there's so much more to come.
For one thing, I started mixing the ingredients before I made sure if I had enough of everything they called for. I didn't. I only had about half of the brown sugar, and about half of the white sugar that I needed for the recipe. But it was already mixed with the flour and other "dry ingredients" that I needed. Such as the baking soda, which I mistakingly thought was baking powder. Whoops.
This brings me to my point. I haven't even actually mixed the cookie dough yet, and already everything I've done has been wrong. It was almost enough to make me quit right then and there. If it weren't for my stubborn streak, I definitely would have. Maybe I should have.
So, I began mixing the ingredients. The wrong ingredients, with the wrong amounts. This might not have been so bad. The butter wasn't softened. (Tip two, always use softened butter when using them in chocolate chip cookies. Always.) My recipe did not tell me to soften it, so I didn't think it mattered. I was wrong. When the butter is not softened, it makes it very difficult to mix, and when it finally decides that it will humor you and mix, it mixes too well.
I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that I was just complaining about how it wouldn't mix, now I'm complaining about how it mixes too well, and I should make up my mind about which it was. Maybe "too well" was the wrong way to describe what happened when I mixed it. I think I meant to say that the mixture mixed and became extremely thick and stick, though it was smooth. It was thick and sticky, and it got caught on the beaters. It was so thick and sticky that it literally stopped the beaters from working. I don't mean slowed down, that's (apparently) normal. No. The beaters stopped. On the highest setting the beaters stopped. That scared me. Seriously.
At this point, I was frantic. What had I done wrong? Well, other than doing at least three things wrong, what did I do wrong? There was my answer. So I decided to add some more ingredients to try and fix what I had done. Like more egg. And a little flour never hurt a recipe, did it? Well, shoot, now it looks too dry, let's add another egg. Some more flour. What is this mess? It is cookie dough, and THIS IS SPARTA!
So, I figured I needed to quit mixing it and just put the damn dough balls onto some cookie sheets and bake them before I was way, way behind, instead of way behind, I did just that. I popped those bad boys onto a cookie sheet, getting my hands extremely gooey and gross in the process. Unfortunately the balls were too big (help me God, if you just thought "that's what she said") and my mom thought it would help me learn better if she did not point out my mistakes, so she let me make them ginormous. Fricking wonderful mom, thank you for that life lesson. When someone makes a mistake, no seventy bazillion mistakes, do not tell them they've done so. They need to learn it the hard way; they need to learn what they did wrong and how to fix it for next time. Even if they have no idea what the Hell went wrong, or how to fix it. I love you mom. I love you so much right now.
So, while the first batch of balls (fine, whatever, think it, I don't care) were baking, I decided that I would make myself a salad. Ah, just what I needed, a fresh salad. how delicious and healthy. So I grabbed a bowl and placed it on the counter. Then I grabbed some tomatoes, raisins and a head of "lettuce". Now I put quotations around the word "lettuce" because what I mistakingly believed to be lettuce was, in fact, cabbage. Wonderful. So, I opened the fridge door and put the leafy impostor back. Damn cabbage, trying to sneak it's nasty tasting self into my salad.
While I was mumbling to myself about how much I loathed cabbage, I realized I wanted some extras for my salad, to make up for all of the terrible things I had just gone through. I wanted parmesan cheese, but I couldn't find any so I asked mom, who was still on the computer, if she knew where it would be. She thought I said "long johns", so she said there should be some in the laundry room. Just great, the parmesan cheese I wanted was in the fricking laundry room. She had somehow mistaken my quest for a hard, dry, sharp flavored Italian cheese that is often grated, for warm underwear with long legs.
That didn't help me at all. If she couldn't help me, I'd look for it myself. Which I did. Behind the fruit, in the side shelfs, on the moon, behind the sink, well, you get the idea. Then I found it, right behind another good salad topper, some Ranch dressing that mom brought home from J.D.'s Pizza. I triumphantly reached for the cheese, already picturing how good my salad would be. When I slipped on some water. (Where did that come from I want to know. ) My hand knocked the ranch container onto the floor. But not before hitting my thigh (while I was wearing semi-short shorts) and opening, leaving a lovely trail of creamy, white, stuff on my leg. Now, I knew what it was. I also knew what it looked like. It looked like a certain male fluid had been spurted onto my upper thigh. Absolutely delightful.
At about that same moment, the fire alarm went off.
"BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!" went the fire detector.
"F***, f*** ,f*** ,f*** ,f*** ,f***" I swore, under my breath. Although, at this point, I doubt my mom would have objected too much had I been louder.
The smoke was a thick, swilring haze by this point, and try as I might, I just couldn't get it to stop. I put the fan on full blast, even though it was swinging ominously, like it might fly off and behead* someone at any point. I was even waving a towel furiously in front of the fire detector. It's hideous little blinking red eye and terrible shrieks will probably haunt me in my dreams for weeks to come. No, this whole day will do that, but it'll have it's own little section.
While I was fanning the fire detector, I forgot about my cookies. They were still in the oven. Oh my God! I dropped the towel and ran over to the oven and wrenched open the door, praying they would still be edible. They weren't, but not because they were over done. They were not done. Why did the fire detector go off then?
I learned from my mom that something had been spilled in the oven and not cleaned. I blinked and tried to rub the smoke from my eyes as this sunk in. It probably didn't help that the alarm was still going. I walked away, dazed. The cookies weren't done, the cookies weren't done, the cookies weren't done. But how?
When the fire alarm stopped beeping, I relaxed into a chair, thinking of a happy place to keep from hurting someone, anyone.
"BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!!!"
"What the HELL is that noise!", I howled. It was the timer. I had forgotten to reset the timer since the cookies weren't even half done. Best. Day. Ever.
I reset the timer and went back over to my chair. Then I remembered the salad I had not gotten around to making. I grudgingly got up and trudged over to the counter. Somehow I had forgotten to clean the ranch up, and it was still on my thigh, and the floor, mocking my every move without me even realizing it. I cleaned myself and the floor up, and made my salad, wilted iceberg greens, dry tomatoes, and room temperature cheese, my favorite. No ranch though. I never want ranch dressing again.
Then the timer went off again. I was there in an instant, pushing it back in to stop the noise. My head was aching. My body was aching. The first batch of cookies wasn't even done. How was it possible that I could have had such a bad day already without even having made one batch of cookies? How is that humanly possible?
I checked the cookies and decided they were almost done. I put on an old oven mitt, then proceeded to wait by the oven for about a minute, again abandoning ideas of eating my salad. My poor, poor salad. When would we be reunited? I checked the cookies again and decided they were finally done. I reached in and proceeded to grab the cookie sheet. There was a hold in the oven mitt that I hadn't seen. It was right where my fingers were. My fingers touched metal that had been heated to 375 degrees. If the scream of delayed pain wasn't heard across the glode, color me surprised. I don't even know what color surprised would be, but I wouldn't mind if you colored me at this point. I hope it's orange, orange is my favorite color.
Thank God I managed to place the cookie sheet on top of the oven, even in my somewhat delirious state. I would normally be sarcastic and say that I deserve a cookie at this point, but irony can only be used so much, and I don't know if I ever want to see a cookie again. Much less make or eat one. Blegh, disgusting.
I ran cold water on my burn, then sucked it up and put another batch in.
Another part of my soul, gone. That brings a new meaning to "soul food".
I took the cookies off of the cookie sheet and sat down. I slowly forked my salad into my mouth, reevaluting my life. I must have done something very, very wrong sometime in my life. Or perhaps I was Adolf Hitler in a past life. Or maybe I was Attila The Hun. That would explain how I like Asian men. Wait, no, wouldn't that mean that he was gay? While pondering the choices and possibilities leading up to this point in my life the timer buzzed again. I jerked up , disoriented for a moment, before I got up and turned the timer off.
This time the cookies were done. I put a different oven mitt on, learning from past errors, and took them out, then put another batch in. I was almost done and literally thanking God.
About the time I set the oven timer the fire detector went off again.
"BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!" It shrieked.
"WHY?! WHY?! WHY?! Why? Why? Whywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhy...", I cried. Tears running down my face, while laughing hysterically. I fanned the towel in front of it, wondering if the God I had just been thanking actually existed. My laughter was echoing hollowly in my own ears as the alarm kept going off. Maybe he only existed for people who weren't Hitler or Attila the Hun in past lives. Maybe I get no God. Maybe these cookies better be the best damn cookies anyone has ever tasted, because anyone who tells me otherwise is going regret it. Just like I'm beginning to regret my life.
The alarm stopped, but the tears kept flowing. If I didn't stop crying soon, I'd have no liquid left in my body and I'd blacken and shrivel up. Like a raisin. Or my soul. The smoke wasn't helping at all. In fact, it was probably the worst thing** that could have happened in a long list of things.
I almost crawled to my room and I lay down. Happy thoughts, I needed to think happy thoughts. I just needed to think happy thoughts. Ponies, cute guys, sugar, cookies. No, not cookies! The cookies are a lie. The cookies are a lie. Think of happy thoughts, penguins, cute guys, DC Comics, Batman, friends, famil...no, wait, I said happy thoughts. Think of...
The timer went off again. My mind went off again.
I don't even remember getting up to shut that damn device off. I must have, because it stopped and I was in front of the oven, opening the door and taking the next batch out. Using the wrong oven mitt.
I threw the pan at the oven, somehow managing to not upset the cookies from the pan and thus keep them off of the floor. Well, except for one slippery little molten hot bastard. It hit my leg. And I bet it was laughing all the way down. I wouldn't know, by then I couldn't hear anything except my own savage scream, and this internal buzzing in my ears. Was the timer going off again? No? It must've been me then. Yeah, that must've been it.
I'm not really sure what happened next, I know I put the next batch in, but I can't remember it. By then I guess I was kind of on autopilot. I had begun this, and I would not give up until I was done.
The next batch of cookies was done, and I took them out. Then I went into my room and looked at the clock. I had been through Hell and come back in a little over an hour and a half.
If I never see another cookie again, it'll be too soon. I'm writing this hours after the fact.
My mom just woke up as I finish this. I'm going to my friend's party in a few minutes if she hurries up and get's moving. I'm going to my friend's party, and I'm going to give him these cookies. He's getting a part of my soul. I hope my soul tastes good, but considering I think I may have been an evil tyrant in a past life, I'm doubting my soul tastes so good. Maybe when mixed with the cookie dough it makes a good taste.
It better, because if not I think I shall go mad.
Here's to hoping that I haven't bored you too much with my account of Hell. Not that I really care at the moment. Have a good day. Or at least a better day than me.
I almost crawled to my room and I lay down. Happy thoughts, I needed to think happy thoughts. I just needed to think happy thoughts. Ponies, cute guys, sugar, cookies. No, not cookies! The cookies are a lie. The cookies are a lie. Think of happy thoughts, penguins, cute guys, DC Comics, Batman, friends, famil...no, wait, I said happy thoughts. Think of...
The timer went off again. My mind went off again.
I don't even remember getting up to shut that damn device off. I must have, because it stopped and I was in front of the oven, opening the door and taking the next batch out. Using the wrong oven mitt.
I threw the pan at the oven, somehow managing to not upset the cookies from the pan and thus keep them off of the floor. Well, except for one slippery little molten hot bastard. It hit my leg. And I bet it was laughing all the way down. I wouldn't know, by then I couldn't hear anything except my own savage scream, and this internal buzzing in my ears. Was the timer going off again? No? It must've been me then. Yeah, that must've been it.
I'm not really sure what happened next, I know I put the next batch in, but I can't remember it. By then I guess I was kind of on autopilot. I had begun this, and I would not give up until I was done.
The next batch of cookies was done, and I took them out. Then I went into my room and looked at the clock. I had been through Hell and come back in a little over an hour and a half.
If I never see another cookie again, it'll be too soon. I'm writing this hours after the fact.
My mom just woke up as I finish this. I'm going to my friend's party in a few minutes if she hurries up and get's moving. I'm going to my friend's party, and I'm going to give him these cookies. He's getting a part of my soul. I hope my soul tastes good, but considering I think I may have been an evil tyrant in a past life, I'm doubting my soul tastes so good. Maybe when mixed with the cookie dough it makes a good taste.
It better, because if not I think I shall go mad.
Here's to hoping that I haven't bored you too much with my account of Hell. Not that I really care at the moment. Have a good day. Or at least a better day than me.
*Note: No one was beheaded in the making of Satan's cookies, though hopes and dreams were sucked from my body in the long, achingly slow process.
**Never, ever, evereverevereverEVER think or say that!
----------------
Now playing:
Linkin Park - Given Up
Three Days Grace - Get Out Alive
Linkin Park - Bleed It Out
Three Days Grace - It's All Over
via FoxyTunes
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