Wednesday, June 26, 2002
How to make the perfect cookies and be a perfect idiot |7:59 PM|
So you've got this pal, who you think could use some cookies. You happen to have the most perfect goddamn chocolate chip cookie recipe ON EARTH. You check the time, it's 5:30. You've had an amazing day of paying bills, and dealing with collection agencies, and you just happened to get your hands on the best mixer in the city of Austin.
Checking the ingredient list, you have everything you need, including a massive pile of butter. "Christ" you think "Why the fuck do I have so much fucking butter?" You dismiss this thought. ON TO MAKING COOKIES. You gather your ingredients, butter, chocolate, butter, flower baking soda, butter and butter. And eggs. You break an egg open to make sure there aren't some goddamn chickens hiding in there. Mixing quickly, you realize a sudden need for brown sugar. Your one box is not expired, but for some reason, it's hard as a rock. Shaking it does nothing. Beating it against a fridge wall does nothing. In your anger, you throw it on the ground and stomp on it with all of your might.
This is your first baking injury in months.
Hopping and cursing, you grab the brown sugar, measure out what is needed, and beat it to the proper consistency. Time to put tinfoil on the baking sheet.
OH WOW. THE FUCKING BAKING SHEET WAS ON THE OVEN.
This is your second baking injury. Your left hand is half useless for a few minutes.
But still, this is a labor of love. You continu working on the cookies. The cookies are ready for the oven, and in they go. You start to prepare the shipping box. Sure, this friend lives in the middle of a desert, but you have a plan. A plan involving ice packs made out of ziploc backs. Hey, where the fuck are the ziploc bags? What the fuck?!
You search the kitchen, and find none. FUCK. You run to the corner store, half limping on a damaged foot. You purchase the bags, and run back. You also need to wrap them in paper towels, to avoid water leaking from the box. Hey, the ziploc bags were behind the towels. FUCK.
Another batch goes into the oven.
You talk to Zusty about silly things, of avatars and women.
Time to ship the cookies out. You earlier aquired the name and address of a Mail Boxes ETC that is open until 7, since the local one closes at 6.
Race, race, race all the way down. You're running out of time. Idly, you wonder if they are hiring. Hey, look, they are hiring BUT THEY'RE FUCKING CLOSED.
GODDAMN.
The LOCAL one must be open until 7! You look at your phone. 8 minutes to get all the way across town. You're already on the highway before you start to think how unlikely this all is.
Your hand is throbbing. Your head is pounding. That headache isn't going away and you're worried about cops.
You blast into the parking lot with a full 90 seconds to spare. You find a parking space, bolt for the door, see a guy leaving. You get to the now locked door, and meet eyes with the man who left. He is starting his car, with the same set of keys you KNOW just locked that door.
You are defeated.
FUCK.
Eat your cookies. You'll mail some more tommorow.
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