So last week I made three batches of cookies. I don’t mean like I put dough in the oven three times. I mean I’ve literally made three entirely different doughs. From scratch.
First was a classic chocolate chip: a little sweet, hardened after a day but great with coffee. Then bittersweet and white chocolate chip: more flour, less sugar, resulting in a nice round flavor and doughier texture. And finally a delicate chocolate dough with Ghiradelli white chocolate morsels. Yep.
Somebody please organize an intervention.
The apartments here are small! I need to be able to fit into tiny spaces!
The first batch actually sprang out of a giddy day-after-sex hangover. Like, “You know what, I’m just gonna make some cookies! Cookies for everyone!”
Cut to three days later and I’m kneading the white and brown morsels into the dough with my anger, putting the bitter in bittersweet.
Fast forward three more days and I’ve taken another shot of giddy and chased it with anxious regret and can’t do anything else but load up sheet after sheet with balls lying there with their mocking sheen and intoxicating smell.
Oof, I can’t look at another man for at least a week.