I have a cold. My body has been trying to fight it off for a week (the rest of my family that were exposed came down with all the symptoms within a few days), but I'm afraid this is one battle I'm just not going to win. I'm coughing, my nose is running like a faucet, I'm achy, tired, and I may be trying to swallow my body weight in sinus drainage. It's pretty gross.
I tried talking Mom into staying home to make me chocolate chip cookies. I haven't seen her laugh that hard in a while, actually. I kept laying it on. "It's nice you're getting dressed up so nice to make me cookies," I said. "Those are beautiful cookie making earrings!" She did kiss me on the forehead before she left which was, to be honest, the least she could do. I realize she's a psychologist, and I understand there are people in the world who need her help--but sometimes I need help too, people. I probably even need a psychologist, and ESPECIALLY a psychologist who makes chocolate chip cookies from scratch.
So, having been left alone with just the Muttley Crew, I made a plan. (I am, as you either know or will soon find out, a very big fan of Having A Plan.) The Plan was thus:
Step One--Make My Own Damn Cookies.
Step Two--Turn On Fireplace.
And, finally, Step Three--Curl Up On Good Couch (after brushing off dog hair from yesterday's post-bath play time) To Read And Nap.
I thought this seemed like a reasonable plan for a sick person. (I also planned to spend the evening alternately packing and introducing my mother to 'Sons of Anarchy', but we haven't ruled that bit out yet.) I was especially looking forward to the fireplace heat and the nap--especially if I could enjoy them both at the SAME TIME.
So I went about implementing my plan. Butter softened, things mixed--oh. Rats. No chocolate chips. (How does a house with someone residing in it who loves to bake as much as I do NOT have chocolate chips?) Okay, I thought. I have baking squares and an idiotically sharp knife. I can make this work. (Helpful hint: when someone tells you their new knife set is "idiotically sharp," it's best if you believe them and act accordingly.)
After bandaging my hand, and (VERY awkwardly) making the world's least round dough balls, I put the first set of cookies in the oven. Cue the telephone! It was Grandpa John asking if I'll take Nannie to her hair appointment because he doesn't want to leave "the cribbage" to come take her, and then pick her up again. This is, technically, the reason I moved home, people. To be of service to my family. I can be of use! I'll do it! Cue some cough drops, the fastest shower I've ever taken, a messy french braid, hastily applied mascara, my SAMCRO hoodie and BAM! Out the door.
Did you forget about the cookies? I did.
Turns out chocolate chip cookies don't burn so much as they turn into little charcoal briquettes. Seems like I would've learned this lesson back in 1990 when I tried making them to surprise Nannie after her migrane-nap. She was surprised then, and I was surprised today! Full circle, folks, just like that.
For the record, the rest of them turned out just fine. OBSERVE:
No naps. No reading. No curling up by the fire. But maybe we'll still watch 'Sons of Anarchy' and eat chocolate chip cookies!