Betty’s eggnog recipe sounds delicious, but it lacks a certain je ne sais quoi (French for “Jenny said what?”). It could use something to wash it down wi… no wait, something to wash down… damnit, no, something to be washed down by it? Fuck it, here’s a cookie recipe.
Gil’s* Cruelty-Curtailing Chocolate Chunk & Cranberry Christmas Cookies
1/2 cup white sugar
1/2 cup packed brown sugar
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 cups all-purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
3/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1 rabbit (optional)
1&1/2 cups quick cooking oats
1 cage-free, certified humane egg
1/2 cup Earth Balance butter substitute
2 fucktons Good Life vegan chocolate chunks
1/2 shitload Ocean Spray Craisins
1 big-ass glass of grass-fed, certified pasture milk
1 smug look on face
Preheat oven to 325 degrees. Shoo cat off stovetop, think back to that time you meant to turn the oven on but grabbed the wrong knob and lit a burner and cat went up like a bundle of oily rags, laugh. Oh, you can laugh, she wasn’t hurt. Hell, she walked away from a full-body incineration none the worse for wear, yet you can barely use a whisk without slicing a finger off, ya spaz.
In large bowl, whip Earth Balance and white sugar into a cream, then mix in brown sugar. Insert awl into ear canal, dislodge Stones tune from head.
Beat in egg, add vanilla extract. If you don’t have vanilla extract you can substitute crumbled Nilla Wafers or just hum “Ice Ice Baby” into bowl.
Add combined baking soda, cinnamon and salt; stir well. Mix in all-purpose flour, but try to keep this step on the down-low if you’re letting OWS protesters crash at your place, lest you have to listen to some hippie go off on how hemp’s the real all-purpose flower, man, but you’ll never hear about that on Martha Stewart, cuz she knows what masters she serves.
Mix in chocolate chunks and Craisins. Okay, wait, back up a sec—stop shoveling fistfuls of chocolate chunks and Craisins into your big fat maw, for Chrissakes. Okay, now mix in chocolate chunks and Craisins. Stir vigorously; if Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction, take out rage on mixture, cranking up intensity until you explode violently and hurl bowl against wall. Move on to rabbit.
If not Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction, drop heaping spoonfuls of batter onto ungreased baking sheets. Since your oven is an unbelievable piece of crap, keep minimal space between cookies so they’ll touch when they spread out, otherwise they’ll come out as rings of burnt yuck with cookie centers. Also, line all four sides of baking sheet with cheap store-bought dough—you refer to this as the “doughrimeter,” because you’re a total dork—so that oven will think that’s part of the batch proper and burn it to a crisp, sparing the rest. You have no idea why your Goddamn oven does this. Probably something to do with conduction, and also it’s evil.
Bake for anywhere between 6 and 12 minutes, because that fucking oven. After 40 minutes, note odor and apartment filled with smoke, chastise self for doing this every single time you try to cook something, you idiot, wonder deep down if you haven’t just given in and bought a friggin’ egg timer because you secretly relish these moments of self-flagellation. Scrape blackened discs into garbage and start over.
Yields: 12 cookies
Serves: 4 people without severe impulse-control issues, or you
*oh pseudonymity, how you thwart alliteration
I could either deal head-on with the massive self-loathing that causes me to do such things, or I could distract myself from same by making you fight for my amusement. Guess which way I’m leaning! That’s right, it’s time for yet another commenter contest with nebulous rules, imaginary prizes, and a curious reticence on the issue of who exactly is doing the judging and how.
I understand you folks Stateside have a sacred holiday coming up later this week. I’ve been trying to get my head round it through vigorous research around the Web, and it seems to focus on gathering your relatives together for the offering of a sacrificial exotic fowl of fearsome aspect and proportions to the Gods of Oil and Fire.
The Orthodox practise seems to be to bring the local community, along with key emergency responders, together to cap your day by sharing the spectacular Ritual of the Meleagris Gallopavo Explosion In Your Back Yard. Some conduct this stage indoors, but this is frowned upon in more traditional quarters—Why be so insular? And in any case, not everybody even has walls, given the prevalence of hurricanes and floods—Why rub it in on this most auspicious of days?—so in solidarity with those less fortunate, some drag their furniture right out there and let everyone partake of the spectacle. Heck, if they have the resources and forethought, they televise it.
Several weeks ago, the mister and I invested in a pasta machine—a stainless steel, hand-crank thingie that rolls pasta dough out to the desired thickness and then cuts it into spaghetti or linguini strands. My first foray into pasta making immediately after the purchase was a disaster. Maybe it was too humid. Maybe I used too much olive oil in the dough.
For whatever reason, the dough was a sticky mess that clung to my fingers and either broke off in chunks before it could be fed into the machine or melded itself into wavy, un-boilable clumps immediately upon exit. I ended up rolling the whole lot into a sticky ball and flinging it into a wooded area while cursing a blue streak.
I doubt my presence has been missed much over the past few weeks, as my co-bloggers have certainly kept you amused, informed, and wrily exasperated as usual. Ms. YAFB and I have been on not one, but two holidays this July, after a couple of years when we barely managed any—the first to the wedding of a family friend in wildest Sweden, and the second a week’s voyage on the T.S. Royalist, which some of you may recall from a post of mine from a couple of years ago. I won’t subject you to the full Vogon poetry session of endless holiday snaps, but I’ll share a few, and in return hope that you’ll help me get up to speed with what’s going on in the world—I’ve been without radio and TV for most of the month, let alone access to the blogosphere. You can assume I know about the Norwegian massacre, Amy Winehouse’s untimely death, and the still-grinding budget process, but as for the rest, I have a power of reading to catch up with—not least from this blog!
First Lady Michelle Obama was not the first person to note with alarm that the US obesity rate is ballooning like Rush Limbaugh on a Ho-Ho binge. The US Coast Guard had to revise its safe boating regulations to decrease the number of persons assumed to max out weight capacity per vessel. This was necessary to accommodate our national fondness for lard-fried bacon-wrapped sausages in nacho-chili sauce washed down with 64-oz vats of high-fructose corn syrup.
However, Michelle Obama had the temerity to suggest that it might behoove us to detach our pudgy offspring from the PlayStation, shred a few carrots into their Fruity Pebbles and shoo them outdoors occasionally. This is tantamount to forcibly warehousing young Snotleigh in an ACORN-FEMA camp to dine on undressed arugula while mouthing pro-Obama slogans.
Dice up a small yellow onion (I suppose any kind would do) and sauté it in a skillet in about a tablespoon or so of olive oil over medium high heat.
Meanwhile, dice up the leftover corned beef and potatoes that you cooked on St. Patrick’s Day. When the onion is tender, toss in the corned beef and potatoes, stirring frequently until lightly browned. Add paprika, salt and pepper to taste. Serve.
This is the day Mr. Cracker dreads each year. He does not share his mate’s Irish-American heritage nor her fondness for corned beef and cabbage, the cooking of which he claims “stinks up the whole house.”
But it’s only once a year, so buck up, buttercup, I say. And even he has to admit the leftover corned beef makes damn good reuben sammiches.
Today, MSNBC published several aerial photos purporting to show members of an Amazon Indian tribe that has never been contacted by the outside world:
Check out all the photos here. While it’s comforting to believe there are human beings on the planet who have never heard of Justin Bieber, a closer examination of photos reveals that the whole thing is a hoax.