Coffee and Cookies Can Kiss My Can
I got my computer back! It actually arrived on Thursday, but I didn’t have time to blog until now, as I spent the last two days just sort of staring at Google’s homepage and drooling slightly.
Hoo, boy, I missed the internets. Maybe I don’t know anything about heroin addiction, but I am far more prepared to sympathize with addicts now that I know what it’s like to go for a week without mainlining electrons.
As luck would have it (for you, dear readers), today has been bookended with housefrau mishaps. This morning the LP and I went out to breakfast. Somewhere near the end of the meal, a wee little incident occurred. I was just about to take a sip of my coffee, had the cup up to my lips and was in the very process of tipping the beverage into my mouth, when out of nowhere, a fly landed on the rim of my cup! Now, certainly, with the clarity of hindsight and all, I can see how I should have reacted: in any way other than how I actually did react. Because what I did was scream and jerk away from the terrifying bug, splattering my entire full cup of hot coffee all over myself, the table, and my darling LP sitting opposite.
Now let’s re-enact that little blunder from my LP’s perspective. He’s sitting there talking quite eloquently about the futility of Goddard’s anti-bourgeoisie posturing compared with Buñuel’s sublime absurdity, when I quite suddenly scream and throw a cup of coffee at him.
I think he was a little pissed.
I stuck to less risky activities for the rest of the day, but late this evening it came that I found myself in the kitchen. And there I discovered that I possess an a rare culinary ability that I doubt even Julia Child could rival: I can fuck up food that someone else is making.
Around 2:00 a.m. last night, I realized that I had the ingredients for chocolate chip cookies in the house. Because such a confluence of ingredients comes around about as often as a non-pedophillic priest, I decided that I HAD TO BAKE COOKIES THAT VERY MOMENT. But my wise LP assured me that the time for baking cookies was not the middle of the night when he was trying to sleep for chrissake, and promised that he would bake the cookies for me in the morning.
Well, obviously, I didn’t have cookies for breakfast; instead I threw coffee. So the ever-patient LP decided this evening to make good on his promise.
It should be noted at this point that I was basing my conviction about having all the ingredients on a somewhat hazy memory of what might actually be in chocolate chip cookies. The fact was, all I knew was that we had eggs. I also knew that I still had chocolate left over from when I made those pots de crème. So LP pulled out a recipe and started baking away while I hacked at the much-smaller-than-I-remembered block of chocolate in an effort to make it into the requisite chips.
We didn’t have any brown sugar. Really, LP could have given up then and there, or told me that if I wanted cookies so badly, I could go to the store and actually buy all the ingredients. But, dear man, he started googling (gawd, how have I lived for the past week?!) and discovered that brown sugar is actually just plain white sugar with some molasses in it.
HOLY FUCK, I HAD SOME MOLASSES.
Onward! It occurred to me that I might want to tell LP that the molasses in the cabinet was purchased about six years ago (a gingerbread endeavor, which, well, let’s just say that I wound up having to go out and buy Christmas gifts after all that year), and I had only kept it around because the bottle had an adorable drawing of a bunny, and I had no idea if it was good. But I didn’t mention it. How could molasses go bad? It’s molasses.
Well, when the LP opened the bottle, it gave off an immense whoosh and proceeded to announce to the entire kitchen via olfactory messengers that six-year-old molasses tends to smell just like feces of the same age.
We checked the magical computing box again. Molasses is good for a year, tops, in the fridge. Whoops.
Well, too late. The batter had entered the early periods of gestation, and to abort at that point would have been to call down the wrath of Jerry Falwell, probably, since I assume he considers half-baked goods to be soul-endowed cookies in the eyes of completely fucking insane christians everywhere. So the cookies went in the oven sans-molasses, and also short quite a bit of chocolate and vanilla extract and possibly some other things that the LP was kind enough not to tell me we didn’t actually have.
Then I decided to make coffee! Because by gum, I was gonna get back up on that drinking-beverages-from-grown-up-cups horse.
Apparently, a compromised drinking-coffee skill translates into a compromised making-coffee skill. I brewed a fresh, somehow not-very-hot pot of brownish water with crunchy coffee grinds floating in it. I’d already slopped some irish cream liquor into the cups (in the hopes that being drunk would make the whole experience somehow jolly). So we sat in the kitchen eating exceedingly weird cookies and drinking irish cream slightly watered down and full of coffee grounds.
The cookies, actually, were pretty tasty, no thanks to me. And the more I drink of this mostly-just-alcohol concoction I call coffee, the more I think that maybe, just maybe, I should throw caution to the wind and hop right back up on the housefrau horse. It’s still pretty early, and I still have ten eggs in the fridge. And I think some sugar. And possibly even a bit of butter.
Say, isn’t that what goes in crème brulée?
Hoo, boy, I missed the internets. Maybe I don’t know anything about heroin addiction, but I am far more prepared to sympathize with addicts now that I know what it’s like to go for a week without mainlining electrons.
As luck would have it (for you, dear readers), today has been bookended with housefrau mishaps. This morning the LP and I went out to breakfast. Somewhere near the end of the meal, a wee little incident occurred. I was just about to take a sip of my coffee, had the cup up to my lips and was in the very process of tipping the beverage into my mouth, when out of nowhere, a fly landed on the rim of my cup! Now, certainly, with the clarity of hindsight and all, I can see how I should have reacted: in any way other than how I actually did react. Because what I did was scream and jerk away from the terrifying bug, splattering my entire full cup of hot coffee all over myself, the table, and my darling LP sitting opposite.
Now let’s re-enact that little blunder from my LP’s perspective. He’s sitting there talking quite eloquently about the futility of Goddard’s anti-bourgeoisie posturing compared with Buñuel’s sublime absurdity, when I quite suddenly scream and throw a cup of coffee at him.
I think he was a little pissed.
I stuck to less risky activities for the rest of the day, but late this evening it came that I found myself in the kitchen. And there I discovered that I possess an a rare culinary ability that I doubt even Julia Child could rival: I can fuck up food that someone else is making.
Around 2:00 a.m. last night, I realized that I had the ingredients for chocolate chip cookies in the house. Because such a confluence of ingredients comes around about as often as a non-pedophillic priest, I decided that I HAD TO BAKE COOKIES THAT VERY MOMENT. But my wise LP assured me that the time for baking cookies was not the middle of the night when he was trying to sleep for chrissake, and promised that he would bake the cookies for me in the morning.
Well, obviously, I didn’t have cookies for breakfast; instead I threw coffee. So the ever-patient LP decided this evening to make good on his promise.
It should be noted at this point that I was basing my conviction about having all the ingredients on a somewhat hazy memory of what might actually be in chocolate chip cookies. The fact was, all I knew was that we had eggs. I also knew that I still had chocolate left over from when I made those pots de crème. So LP pulled out a recipe and started baking away while I hacked at the much-smaller-than-I-remembered block of chocolate in an effort to make it into the requisite chips.
We didn’t have any brown sugar. Really, LP could have given up then and there, or told me that if I wanted cookies so badly, I could go to the store and actually buy all the ingredients. But, dear man, he started googling (gawd, how have I lived for the past week?!) and discovered that brown sugar is actually just plain white sugar with some molasses in it.
HOLY FUCK, I HAD SOME MOLASSES.
Onward! It occurred to me that I might want to tell LP that the molasses in the cabinet was purchased about six years ago (a gingerbread endeavor, which, well, let’s just say that I wound up having to go out and buy Christmas gifts after all that year), and I had only kept it around because the bottle had an adorable drawing of a bunny, and I had no idea if it was good. But I didn’t mention it. How could molasses go bad? It’s molasses.
Well, when the LP opened the bottle, it gave off an immense whoosh and proceeded to announce to the entire kitchen via olfactory messengers that six-year-old molasses tends to smell just like feces of the same age.
We checked the magical computing box again. Molasses is good for a year, tops, in the fridge. Whoops.
Well, too late. The batter had entered the early periods of gestation, and to abort at that point would have been to call down the wrath of Jerry Falwell, probably, since I assume he considers half-baked goods to be soul-endowed cookies in the eyes of completely fucking insane christians everywhere. So the cookies went in the oven sans-molasses, and also short quite a bit of chocolate and vanilla extract and possibly some other things that the LP was kind enough not to tell me we didn’t actually have.
Then I decided to make coffee! Because by gum, I was gonna get back up on that drinking-beverages-from-grown-up-cups horse.
Apparently, a compromised drinking-coffee skill translates into a compromised making-coffee skill. I brewed a fresh, somehow not-very-hot pot of brownish water with crunchy coffee grinds floating in it. I’d already slopped some irish cream liquor into the cups (in the hopes that being drunk would make the whole experience somehow jolly). So we sat in the kitchen eating exceedingly weird cookies and drinking irish cream slightly watered down and full of coffee grounds.
The cookies, actually, were pretty tasty, no thanks to me. And the more I drink of this mostly-just-alcohol concoction I call coffee, the more I think that maybe, just maybe, I should throw caution to the wind and hop right back up on the housefrau horse. It’s still pretty early, and I still have ten eggs in the fridge. And I think some sugar. And possibly even a bit of butter.
Say, isn’t that what goes in crème brulée?
posted by Housefrau at 10:27 PM
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