Did I ever tell you about the time that I . . .
. . . baked cookies? Previously, I told you about the cake incident and me being banned from my own stove. Here is a story that might give you some insight into how the cake thing really came to happen.
When I was a a kid, I loved sugar cookies. My mom had the best-in-the-frigging world sugar cookie recipe - ever. In the entire universe. I loved those damn cookies.
And I had (actually still do) two older brothers who were on the track, football, and baseball teams (but they're not now - now they're old - thankfully I'm not, go me!). So I didn't get that many cookies most of the time because they were each known to demolish a meal meant for a family of five in one sitting.
One early summer afternoon, my bff was over and I decided we should bake some of these superior-to-the-manna-from-the-gods cookies. I pulled out Mom's neat, cursively written recipe card and began telling bff Erin what ingredients to pull out of the fridge. Soon, there was a decent grouping of items. We hauled out some mixing bowls and measuring cups and we were good to go.
Carefully, we measured and mixed. Gently, we placed spoonfuls of dough on the baking sheet - before smooshing them with a flat bottom glass coated with sugar. Excitedly, we placed them in the oven.
The minutes ticked by slowly. It was nearly painful having to wait.
Finally the correct amount crawled by. But suddenly the cookies didn't smell quite right. There was something, just - off.
We pulled them out of the oven, carefully placing them on the cooling rack.
Finally, the cookies were cool enough to eat. Each armed with large glasses of milk, we snatched up a cookie and took our first soft, warm bite.
And immediately spit it out.
I'd told Erin to use "tarter sauce" rather than the "cream of tarter" the recipe had called for.
My bad.
Even my brothers wouldn't eat the cookies.
Obviously I was never meant to bake - at least for humans.
When I was a a kid, I loved sugar cookies. My mom had the best-in-the-frigging world sugar cookie recipe - ever. In the entire universe. I loved those damn cookies.
And I had (actually still do) two older brothers who were on the track, football, and baseball teams (but they're not now - now they're old - thankfully I'm not, go me!). So I didn't get that many cookies most of the time because they were each known to demolish a meal meant for a family of five in one sitting.
One early summer afternoon, my bff was over and I decided we should bake some of these superior-to-the-manna-from-the-gods cookies. I pulled out Mom's neat, cursively written recipe card and began telling bff Erin what ingredients to pull out of the fridge. Soon, there was a decent grouping of items. We hauled out some mixing bowls and measuring cups and we were good to go.
Carefully, we measured and mixed. Gently, we placed spoonfuls of dough on the baking sheet - before smooshing them with a flat bottom glass coated with sugar. Excitedly, we placed them in the oven.
The minutes ticked by slowly. It was nearly painful having to wait.
Finally the correct amount crawled by. But suddenly the cookies didn't smell quite right. There was something, just - off.
We pulled them out of the oven, carefully placing them on the cooling rack.
Finally, the cookies were cool enough to eat. Each armed with large glasses of milk, we snatched up a cookie and took our first soft, warm bite.
And immediately spit it out.
I'd told Erin to use "tarter sauce" rather than the "cream of tarter" the recipe had called for.
My bad.
Even my brothers wouldn't eat the cookies.
Obviously I was never meant to bake - at least for humans.
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