I was, until recently, shuffling dejectedly around the house with a hangdog expression that can only be replicated through pure and abject failure of the highest order. I tried to bake chocolate chip cookies this morning. Spoiler alert, it didn’t end well.
Nearly at the zenith of my life (people keep arguing that midpoint is fifty and not forty as I’ve been sullenly alluding to) I’ve never baked anything (except myself in a car). After constructing pretend mud pies with my daughter I… in a moment of parental enthusiasm suggested we should go inside and bake (actual) cookies.
My wife arched her eyebrow at finding us in the kitchen, knee deep in flour and baking apparatuses, shooting me a look that suggested both concern… and condescension… as she watched me judge a teaspoon of vanilla essence straight from the bottle. ‘You’re following the recipe right?’ she ventured.
‘Yeah, more or less’
On the plus side, as a learning experience, I now know why, ‘more or less’, is not really a baking ideology that has gained much traction over the years. I’ve also crossed off going all Walter White as a potential alternative career venture… seeing as I will either kill my customer base relatively quickly or spread myself thin (on the inside of a Winnebago) with an incendiary-type event. In fact anything involving exact measurements should be probably just be avoided. I am definitely more blunt force trauma than precision wet-work.
How does that saying go? Big, dumb and full of… rum? Hmm. That might actually cheer me up right now.