"Nothing tastes better than a cookie baked in a tree." - Jerry the Gourd
Upon pondering my life the other day while banging on the piano, I was given somewhat of a revelation. There is one chord, in particular--one that I couldn't name to save my soul--that sounds so frank and statement-like when it is banged upon. I've grown rather fond of that chord, and whilst I was banging on this particular one, and reflecting on the blunt jolliness of its sound, I decided that I needed to bake myself a batch of chocolate chip cookies. It had been far too long since I had baked a batch of cookies for the sole purpose of baking a batch of cookies. The last time, as I recall, was several years ago when I started a headed argument between myself and a friend as to the fact that the cookies were not salty enough. They needed to be "sharper,"I argued; something with a more pungent sensation like cheddar cheese or Welsh's grape juice. I'm not sure what recipe we used back, but it certainly wasn't the secret recipe I intended to use this time. Passed down from my great great great grandmother, Nestlie Tollhouse, I found this sacred recipe loving printed on the back of a $5.45 plastic bag of chocolate chips from Wal Mart. Secret recipe in hand, I resolved to make these cookies as close to perfection as possible. I ran down to the chicken coop for fresh eggs, turned on the most epic, cookie-making music I could conjure out of my iTunes library, and set to work. Before long, the kitchen resembled mid February; so deep was the snowfall of all-purpose flour on the counters, floor, and, to my surprise, the ceiling as well. I had briefly considered milling my own flour for the sheer authenticity of it, but no doubt that would have resulted a blizzard too intense for my snow plows. Following my better judgement, I still made sure to add a touch more salt to the recipe, and used even more stirring and mixing utensils than necessary for the mere pleasure of licking them all clean when I was finished. While my cookies were baking, I poured myself a glass of farm-fresh milk and set up some lights to snap my cookbook-perfect photograph. Needless to say, they were terribly tasty, even if they were a touch under baked. Fully baked though, was my desire to make chocolate chip cookies.
The moral of the story is threefold: do things you haven't done in a while just because pressing your own envelope is very fulfilling. Second, banging on the piano can give you epiphanic revelations, and third, (in the case of VeggieTales) cookies ward off evil sporks. Sporks be warned. Be afraid. I have cookies.