Remember when I posted about baking the cookies that another woman had so kindly offered to bake for my husband? And how, in my immaturity, I was certain I rose to the challenge and exceeded his cookie expectations? Yeah. I got schooled.
Mine were chocolate Hershey kisses cookie batter with mini-Reeses Peanut Butter cups in the center. These? Are better. Peanut butter chocolate chip cookie batter with a Hershey kiss in the center. Know who baked 'em?
Because I'm not competitive in any manner (:::cough:::), I was fine with it when he gloated. He strutted his peacock-esque feathers around the kitchen in an "oh yeah, THAT just happened" manner, then he retired to his oversized chair to catch the last quarter of the football games.
I couldn't help but stare at his creations. How does he do it? He works 3 jobs. He's a truck driving, construction kind of man...yet he makes perfect cookies in his spare time? Mine are not perfect, they're more "slap the dough on the tray and hope for the best". And I burn the bottoms...every time. I lack the necessary patience to bake something that requires me to get up and down 58 times to load and unload, cool and stack. I want to use the electric mixer, throw it in the oven for a decent amount of time, and call it a day.
But my husband? He's an Enjoli commercial from the 70's. He "can bring home the bacon, fry it up in a pan (as he does every Sunday morning), and never never let you forget he's the MAN!"
The song played in my head as I stared at his "plated cookies". My head/neck tremors roared back and I shivered from side to side, violently. What could I possibly do? And then it came to me...
No...I couldn't do that. I don't want to be the Tonya Harding of baking. Could I instead give them to our Basset Hound? No. That's not right, either. Guess there's just one thing I can do. Accept it.
And maybe hide the milk?