Muffin Wars
Phew.
I just finished smiting the Sodom and Gomorrah of the fruitfly world: namely the dried-on orange juice on the counter and the dried-on everythings on Spawnling's highchair.
Take that, you little bastards.
I'm feeling very omnipotent right now.
At the moment I'm drinking some low sodium V8 and trying to convince myself that it will fill me up. I'm starving after the cleaning and the dancing to MP3s on the player with Geekster's oversized headphones wrapped around my head. I was burning extra calories while breaking up the fruitfly lovefest. It made my task more enjoyable.
I was all set to make some chocolate chip cookies today; I have all the ingredients and a new baking pan. I had children sleeping and/or watching television and/or listening to more highly annoying Naruto theme songs on YouTube. The problem? My Betty Crocker cookbook has gone missing in the move.
What, you say? Who cares, you say? You can find 35,000 other chocolate chip cookie recipes online, you say?
True, I say. But there is only one amazing cookie recipe, and that can only be found within the pages of the Betty Crocker cookbook. The others simply pale in comparison. If you haven't had Maven Crocker's chocolate chip cookies then you have been dealt a horrible hand in life and should consider therapy to deal with the anguish.
They are, if I do say so (and of course I will), incredible. I'm guessing that this is why I can pack away 8 or 10 of them in a day.
Maybe it's good that I haven't found that cookbook.
Plan B, of course, is to start the Muffin Wars.
It's a simple solution to a problem I've had lately: I love to bake but I haven't the time. My neighbours, on the other hand, have lives far less chaotic than mine. They also seem to enjoy baking. Baking for my family.
Isn't this most excellent?
The week we moved in we were given Welcome Muffins from Pajama Pants, our single, female neighbour across the road. Welcome Muffins are provided in a disposable pie plate because they say 'Welcome to the neighbourhood. Because I don't know whether or not you're a thieving miscreant I will give you a baking tray that I don't need back'.
The second tray came from Popsicle Pop and Gardening Girl about two weeks ago. They also provided a disposable baking tray, even though they know two other generations of my family members.
Either they have trust issues or my grandma is into high crime.
Anyway, the point is that both trays of muffins were delicious and I wish they could hurry up and make us some more because I'm getting tired of not having baked goods in the house. Therefore, Geekster and I have concocted a way to get the ball rolling.
First of all, we could tell Pajama Pants how delicious her muffins were: 'Delicious Muffins, Pajama Pants.'
Pretty good so far, eh? Now comes the twist:
'You know what? Gardening Girl brought us muffins, too! Isn't that great? They were so good. I mean, not that yours weren't. They were good, too. I think. Yeah, yeah... I remember them now. The taste and all, three weeks ago. Good. Yep, good. And hers were awesome.'
I suspect by afternoon we would have a fresh batch of muffins.
Next, I would casually walk up to Gardening Girl while enjoying one of my still-warm muffins.
'Hi, Gardening Girl. Oh, this? This is a muffin from Pajama Pants. Doesn't it smell amazing? I sure do love when people bake for me. Especially if they do it regularly. You know how busy I am, being a stay-at-home-mom to three boys. It's so tiring. I don't get to eat much, as you can tell.' (this is where I show her how much I'm wasting away by sucking my cheeks in for that waif look).
Subtlety is key in these transactions.
She's a bit older than Pajama Pants, probably in her early 70's, but I suspect that by the next morning she'd be able to bring me some muffins if she worked through the night.
Using my big brain coupled with my girlish charms, I could probably manage to swing an outright battle for my affection between my baking neighbours.
I'm worth it.
I just finished smiting the Sodom and Gomorrah of the fruitfly world: namely the dried-on orange juice on the counter and the dried-on everythings on Spawnling's highchair.
Take that, you little bastards.
I'm feeling very omnipotent right now.
At the moment I'm drinking some low sodium V8 and trying to convince myself that it will fill me up. I'm starving after the cleaning and the dancing to MP3s on the player with Geekster's oversized headphones wrapped around my head. I was burning extra calories while breaking up the fruitfly lovefest. It made my task more enjoyable.
I was all set to make some chocolate chip cookies today; I have all the ingredients and a new baking pan. I had children sleeping and/or watching television and/or listening to more highly annoying Naruto theme songs on YouTube. The problem? My Betty Crocker cookbook has gone missing in the move.
What, you say? Who cares, you say? You can find 35,000 other chocolate chip cookie recipes online, you say?
True, I say. But there is only one amazing cookie recipe, and that can only be found within the pages of the Betty Crocker cookbook. The others simply pale in comparison. If you haven't had Maven Crocker's chocolate chip cookies then you have been dealt a horrible hand in life and should consider therapy to deal with the anguish.
They are, if I do say so (and of course I will), incredible. I'm guessing that this is why I can pack away 8 or 10 of them in a day.
Maybe it's good that I haven't found that cookbook.
Plan B, of course, is to start the Muffin Wars.
It's a simple solution to a problem I've had lately: I love to bake but I haven't the time. My neighbours, on the other hand, have lives far less chaotic than mine. They also seem to enjoy baking. Baking for my family.
Isn't this most excellent?
The week we moved in we were given Welcome Muffins from Pajama Pants, our single, female neighbour across the road. Welcome Muffins are provided in a disposable pie plate because they say 'Welcome to the neighbourhood. Because I don't know whether or not you're a thieving miscreant I will give you a baking tray that I don't need back'.
The second tray came from Popsicle Pop and Gardening Girl about two weeks ago. They also provided a disposable baking tray, even though they know two other generations of my family members.
Either they have trust issues or my grandma is into high crime.
Anyway, the point is that both trays of muffins were delicious and I wish they could hurry up and make us some more because I'm getting tired of not having baked goods in the house. Therefore, Geekster and I have concocted a way to get the ball rolling.
First of all, we could tell Pajama Pants how delicious her muffins were: 'Delicious Muffins, Pajama Pants.'
Pretty good so far, eh? Now comes the twist:
'You know what? Gardening Girl brought us muffins, too! Isn't that great? They were so good. I mean, not that yours weren't. They were good, too. I think. Yeah, yeah... I remember them now. The taste and all, three weeks ago. Good. Yep, good. And hers were awesome.'
I suspect by afternoon we would have a fresh batch of muffins.
Next, I would casually walk up to Gardening Girl while enjoying one of my still-warm muffins.
'Hi, Gardening Girl. Oh, this? This is a muffin from Pajama Pants. Doesn't it smell amazing? I sure do love when people bake for me. Especially if they do it regularly. You know how busy I am, being a stay-at-home-mom to three boys. It's so tiring. I don't get to eat much, as you can tell.' (this is where I show her how much I'm wasting away by sucking my cheeks in for that waif look).
Subtlety is key in these transactions.
She's a bit older than Pajama Pants, probably in her early 70's, but I suspect that by the next morning she'd be able to bring me some muffins if she worked through the night.
Using my big brain coupled with my girlish charms, I could probably manage to swing an outright battle for my affection between my baking neighbours.
I'm worth it.