Here’s a picture of Avey showing what she really thinks of Wal-Mart’s weekly ad:
Well, brace yourselves for this one, lads and lassies; today was pretty much the worst Sunday of my life. And I’ve lived for over 26 years, so I’ve seen my fair share of Sundays. I’ll start at the beginning…
It was a warm Sunday afternoon several weeks back. I was off to do some home teaching after church and I hadn’t had much of a meal all day, so my thoughts surrounded all things edible. To my amazement and pleasure, my home teaching partner brought me out a fresh plate of cookies his wife had just baked a few minutes prior. Now, as you probably all know, I am outrageously picky and critical when it comes to cookies. I look at cookies the way a wine connoisseur looks at wines. I’ll judge them on texture, distribution of chocolate chips, use of butter vs. margarine, whether it was baked on aluminum or stone, whether they used dark or light brown sugar, a convection or conduction oven, etc (the term you are searching for is “obsessive-compulsive disorder”).
So, needless to say, I was a bit skeptical when he handed me the plate. However, I bit into the cookie and got that feeling; you know, the one where you realize your life will never be the same from that moment on; where you wonder what purpose your life had up until that moment. The cookie was far better than anything I had ever baked in my life. The experience was almost spiritual.
Needless to say, I demanded the recipe (politely at first). She gave it to me while passing in the hall at church a couple of weeks later, writing it down from memory and handing it to me. I patiently waited for the chance to try it out myself and, yes, today was the day!
I quickly cooked lunch so that I could get it out of the way and have no distractions while I worked. I carefully read the recipe, and with almost surgical precision, measured out and mixed each of the ingredients.
This is where something went horribly wrong.
Near the end of adding the flour, it struck me that the dough was feeling awfully thick for such amazing cookies. I retraced my steps for the recipe and was doing everything just as it said, so pressed onward. I baked the first twelve…
ABSOLUTELY HORRENDOUS! I have never had something so dry, crusty and flavorless come out of my oven in all my life – and I’ve baked Hot Pockets before.
I again retraced my steps, finding nothing incorrect about following the recipe. I consulted with my dear mother, a veteran baker, to ask her counsel. I then followed her advice and added more butter. The result: texture was much better, but flavor left me wanting like an eight-year-old boy one nickel short of a cool, satisfying ice cream cone on a sweltering Summer’s day.
Three more attempts to adjust for the error, but alas, it was not to be.
Somehow, I must have done something wrong, or had some spoiled ingredients, or she left out some vital information in the recipe she gave me. You’re probably thinking, “Just check the recipe again with her and try it one more time.” Thank you, but I may need a few weeks before I can bring myself to bake anything again.
Yes, I do think it’s pretty pathetic that I measure my manhood by my baking skills. While you’re bringing that up, why don’t you point out how I’m the only male in the world I know that keeps a blog! Man, I’m such a girl…