Cooooooookies.
Tomorrow is double-training day at work. I'm stressed, I'm cranky, I'm having a really bad period, and you know what that means...cookies. Yes, cookies. When I'm this irritable, I either a) call Mars (who is in Wisconsin), b) write poetry (which is next on the list) or c) bake cookies. Assloads of cookies. Metric assloads of cookies. When I start baking, it's not merely a social event; it's a religious occurance that goes a long way towards explaining, once again, why I follow Coyote.
So few gods understand the proper importance of food, after all.
Upon getting home from work, I pulled the contents of the baking cabinet out onto the counter, debated briefly with S., and finally settled on tonight's culinary extravaganza: butter cookies with semi-sweet chocolate chips and fully-sweet butterscotch chips. I estimate that I'll have somewhere between five and eight dozen, when I'm done, depending on how large I make them. Some will be eaten tonight; most will go to work with me tomorrow, to be sucked down by the ravening hordes.
Life doesn't suck just now.
So few gods understand the proper importance of food, after all.
Upon getting home from work, I pulled the contents of the baking cabinet out onto the counter, debated briefly with S., and finally settled on tonight's culinary extravaganza: butter cookies with semi-sweet chocolate chips and fully-sweet butterscotch chips. I estimate that I'll have somewhere between five and eight dozen, when I'm done, depending on how large I make them. Some will be eaten tonight; most will go to work with me tomorrow, to be sucked down by the ravening hordes.
Life doesn't suck just now.