… in fact, I am the very walking antithesis of domestic. I am lucky I can make those “heat and eat” cookies, much less ones that require a brain. (sigh) Today has not been a good day. Here’s why:
Issue Numero Uno
There are two different recipes typed out by yours truly for the family Italian cookies. No idea why but there you go. Since I cannot be bothered reading them ahead of time, I sort of wing it going to the store to buy the ingredients but seems I did okay on that end. The problem comes when noticing first that one recipe calls for 7 TABLESPOONS of baking powder, the other 7 TEASPOONS. Call mom. She can’t remember. Seems that part always messed her up too. Thing is, too little and your cookies riseth not. Too much and they taste like cat poo. Goodness. What a dilemma. But mom calls Aunt Connie and finds out it’s TEASPOONS and not TABLESPOONS. Problem solved.
Despite there being a strange blend of the two instructions which would generally give one pause, I cannot be bothered pre-reading it to mom just to be sure all is in order. I just get out my pots and pans and mixer (thanks to NG) and begin whipping it up. I’ve got flour from head to toe, sugar everywhere when I notice that WHOA! I was supposed to segregate it into dry mixture and wet mixture first and THEN blend it. Well, shit. I had already started the blending. Want to cry. Decide that won’t help. Calmly (hahah) start segregating what I can, trying to make the best of it all. Sounds good so far, right? Yes, well. Ha.
Issue Numero Duo
So, there I am, blending my liquidy stuff when I notice that it’s very, very, uh, liquidy. More so than it should be. Pick up recipe #1. It says 1/4 cup of milk. Compare to recipe #2 which says 3 CUPS of milk. (Guess which one I was working from?) I flunked math like the biggest dog in the universe but even *I* know there is a significant difference between 1/4 cup and 3 cups.
Well, I sez, I will just pitch this and start again. One problem. Ain’t got 12,000 more eggs nor the requisite bottles of vanilla and almond extract that I already added to liquidy mix. Frantically call mom to see if this mess can be saved. We decide that it cannot be and must be pitched. I ponder the comments sure to come my way when family descends upon house tomorrow and notes the sheer hideousness of cookie dough and I then decide to hide in closet in woo-woo room. Perhaps Duty can tell them that I’ve become agoraphobic and must forever be confined to small spaces. They can all email me Christmas cards in the future. :)
Come back to reality and know that family won’t care if my dough is poo-ey (yeah, right!) but just in case they do, I make a quick run to Food Lion (quick being relative out here in the freaking boonies) , get what’s needed and zip on home. Blend it up (much better!), mix it in, taste the dough, a bit on the blandy side, throw in more sugar and mix some more. Looks nice, tastes decent, done!
Heated up Freschetta pizza I also bought at FL (and it was quite good, I must say!), snarfed said pizza, drank coffee and finally relaxed. Whined in email to GOL, was cheered by her 11 billion kisses signoff and feel better.
But really, Lisa, read the damn directions next time, will ya? Geesh. And get a freaking job so you won’t be expected to do this kind of thing in the future.