Ten Minutes My Ass

I never bake cookies. Except for that one mad afternoon every 6th December, when hell brakes loose and everyone runs. Christmas does that to me and usually the results are regrettable. Not because I am terrible at mixing copious amounts of butter and sugar and throwing them onto a metal sheet, but because I tend to eat the outcome. The guilt, the moans, and the raised eyebrows at my reflection in our brutal bathroom mirror are enough to keep me from any further follies during the rest of the year.

And then there is something else to consider: time. Apart from being a fat feast, baking causes unspeakable damage to one’s valuable life time. We tend to forget, because after all the recipes only call for 10 minutes for preparation and another 10 minutes for baking.
What is generously omitted is that it’s ten minutes PER tray - and unless you have a mega convection oven, that means that you will be trapped in a furnace-like room for at least four times that amount. And more if you had the insane intuition of doubling the recipe.

Then, of course, there is clean-up. Butter and sugar are notorious badies. It takes time to scrape, burrow, and wipe the nasty remnants of that kind of culinary adventure off the various surfaces. Triple that amount for every child you were crazy enough to invite to the
event.

Now you can guess, what I did today. Somebody shoot me!