I'll have what she's having...
Somewhere between the baking soda and the too-melted butter, my double batch of chocolate chip cookies came out looking like biscuits. As a cookie, they're atrocious. As a cook, I'm a joke. A future husband of mine will be sitting across from me at the dining room table, staring at his plate and laughing: "Honey, it's a good thing you're terrific in bed."
Jenny and I used to make a batch of brownies or something chocolate each time we saw each other (mind you that was only once every three months). For some odd scientific anamoly, they never turned out the same, and not just slightly different either. After following all said instructions, we came up with a completely rock-hard, charred batch of Betty-Crocker-and-just-add-shit mix, which to our surprise and horror her step dad ended up eating. On a seperate occasion, our home-made brownies (who thought we were capable of THAT?) turned into a brown glob only edible with a utensil. Countless hours of failed pancakes and fancy lemon bars have taught me one thing in the kitchen and my relationship with my best friend: directions and norms don't matter (and there's the metaphor you were waiting for, folks!). No matter how many different variables have entered the equation, extra oil, an additional few minutes on the oven timer, I just spent the last half hour cracking up and licking gunk off my fingers. It's still chocolate, it's the best thing in the world, and there is no substitute for something that delicious.
I just finished When Harry Met Sally. Billy Crystal just confessed his love for Meg Ryan, she takes it as desperation, and he explains exactly what he means:
"Well how about this way. I love that you get cold when it's seventy one degrees out, I love that it takes you an our and a half to order a sandwich, I love that you get a little crinkle above your nose when you're looking at me like I'm nuts, I love that after I spend a day with you I can still smell your perfume on my clothes and I love that you are the last person I want to talk to before I go to sleep at night. And it's not because I'm lonely, and it's not because it's New Years Eve. I came here tonight because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of the life to start as soon as possible."
This was written by a woman. This is a cruel play on the emotions of the movie-goer: I've been tricked into believing that my Harry is waiting for me somewhere back in Boston to tell me how much he loves when I sleep with my mouth open or that it's cute when I eat a whole pint of Ben and Jerry's out of misery. It's not going to happen. Especially the Ben and Jerry's part...maybe that's why I dated fat guys. They'd find it mildly impressive/sexy. Now I'm going out in my life to create my own Harry and groom him as a boyfriend, consciously or otherwise. Wish me luck. Or sit there and shake your head in pity.
But for now I'm just going to close my eyes and continue eating the best chocolatey scone-like things I've ever made.
Jenny and I used to make a batch of brownies or something chocolate each time we saw each other (mind you that was only once every three months). For some odd scientific anamoly, they never turned out the same, and not just slightly different either. After following all said instructions, we came up with a completely rock-hard, charred batch of Betty-Crocker-and-just-add-shit mix, which to our surprise and horror her step dad ended up eating. On a seperate occasion, our home-made brownies (who thought we were capable of THAT?) turned into a brown glob only edible with a utensil. Countless hours of failed pancakes and fancy lemon bars have taught me one thing in the kitchen and my relationship with my best friend: directions and norms don't matter (and there's the metaphor you were waiting for, folks!). No matter how many different variables have entered the equation, extra oil, an additional few minutes on the oven timer, I just spent the last half hour cracking up and licking gunk off my fingers. It's still chocolate, it's the best thing in the world, and there is no substitute for something that delicious.
I just finished When Harry Met Sally. Billy Crystal just confessed his love for Meg Ryan, she takes it as desperation, and he explains exactly what he means:
"Well how about this way. I love that you get cold when it's seventy one degrees out, I love that it takes you an our and a half to order a sandwich, I love that you get a little crinkle above your nose when you're looking at me like I'm nuts, I love that after I spend a day with you I can still smell your perfume on my clothes and I love that you are the last person I want to talk to before I go to sleep at night. And it's not because I'm lonely, and it's not because it's New Years Eve. I came here tonight because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of the life to start as soon as possible."
This was written by a woman. This is a cruel play on the emotions of the movie-goer: I've been tricked into believing that my Harry is waiting for me somewhere back in Boston to tell me how much he loves when I sleep with my mouth open or that it's cute when I eat a whole pint of Ben and Jerry's out of misery. It's not going to happen. Especially the Ben and Jerry's part...maybe that's why I dated fat guys. They'd find it mildly impressive/sexy. Now I'm going out in my life to create my own Harry and groom him as a boyfriend, consciously or otherwise. Wish me luck. Or sit there and shake your head in pity.
But for now I'm just going to close my eyes and continue eating the best chocolatey scone-like things I've ever made.