“Hey, kids, would you like me to make some cookies?” This is a question that never really needs asked, because of course, but I was feeling in a giving mood. It was as if June Cleaver, or Paula Deen, had momentarily taken control of my body.
Except I’m pretty sure any respectable domestic type would make their cookies from scratch. Mine come in an already packaged roll.
The kids scream their approval in giddy delight, fresh baked cookies are the best!, and I go about scooping heaping spoonfuls onto a sheet pan while the oven is preheating. I make sure there is some stray dough left-over, which then gets shoveled into my mouth in spite of the raw egg warning. I’m living on the edge here.
All is going well, is what I’m saying. I feel like mother of the year scooping and rolling, my hands gooey with chocolate chips. Until the sheet pan is full of delicious rounds of cookie dough and I open the oven door as carefully as I can with a messy, surprisingly slippery, grip.
The pan shifts from my fingers.
The cookies fall.
Onto the floor of a very hot oven. The cookie dough begins to spread as soon as it hits the surface.
June Cleaver would never have this problem.
“Hey, kids, how would you feel about ice cream instead?”