Come Uppance Rears It's Ugly Head

A few days ago, Harry asked me if I wouldn't mind making some chocolate chip cookies this weekend for him to take to the families he home teaches.  

I take enormous pride in the fact that he loves my chocolate chip cookies, and requests them regularly, especially when I spend way too much on Guittard chocolate chips that are made locally and sold at the farmer's market, which I do on a weekly basis.  

I said sure.

I didn't get a chance to do it on Saturday, but "Not to worry," I assured him, "Church starts at 11 now, so I'll just do it before church on Sunday."

"Are you sure?" he asked, squinting in a way that suggested I was being highly unrealistic.

"Honey, it takes less than an hour.  I can totally do this."

So this morning at 9 am I arose and whipped up the cookies (a double batch, mind you, and without the help of an electric mixer, because the only mixer we own is called my arm).

In my groggy state, as I stood over my bowl of melted butter and brown and white sugar, I thought to myself, "You know, there's nothing really noble about baking.  I mean, no one needs this.  It's butter and sugar.  Anyone who eats these cookies is pretty much shortening their lifespan.  It tastes good but it technically reduces anyone's quality of life."

I shrugged and threw the cookies in the oven.

We left the cookies to cool on paper towels on the counter and went to Church.

When we came home, they were waiting for us, perched atop their little round grease stains on the paper towels.  I started to put them in bags for Harry to take home teaching when I said, "Oh-- where are my baking sheets?"

Harry shrugged.  My immediate conclusion: he cleaned them and put them away for me.

"Oh, honey, thank you, that was so nice." I say.

"No.  I didn't do anything." he says.

Then I realize-- hey, didn't I double this recipe?  Shouldn't there be way more cookies than this?

I peaked in the oven and the roar of a furious lion along with flames of hellfire emerged from my mouth.

I had turned off the oven this morning but had left the last two sheets of cookies in the oven.  We tested one-- it was like biting into a dark brown lava rock.

In my state of complete composure and maturity, I snapped, "Oh my gosh!  I'm never making cookies for you again!"

To which Harry responded, "What?"

To which I so eloquently responded, "It was just so much to do this morning!  I couldn't do it all!"

To which he responded in a smaller voice, "Remember when I thought you should do it on Saturday so that you wouldn't have too much to do this morning?"

To which I responded, the picture of feminine grace and loveliness, mind you, "Whatever!"

I started chucking the two dozen rock-cookies into the garbage can one by one.  And as I did, a little voice in the back of my mind started chanting in sing-song tones, "Well, at least you insist that there's nothing noble about baking anyway, and these cookies won't be shortening your life span by taking up residence on your ample caboose!"  This was followed by a Bellatrix LeStrange style cackle.

To which I responded, "Shut up, brain."

Note to self: Stay away from baking for a while.

Epilogue: We've since hugged it out and I said I'm sorry for being so irritated/ing and am going to try to eliminate my baking hubris for the new year.