Thursday, January 3

Pure Fat, Refined sugar, and um, oatmeal is good for you, right?

So for Christmas I made Oatmeal Lace Cookies, and they went over well, but the Honey really loved them and has been telling one of the guys at work about them ever since. 
(I love the guys at the dealership, because they are all Garbage Disposals, and jump on leftovers like starving wolves.  Then they hoot and holler about which was their favorite, and try to wheedle me into making their favorites for the Honey's dinner so they can get in on the leftovers.)
So last night I put the Honey and Little O to bed and told Big O to come make cookies with me...
He asked why Little O was in bed if we were making cookies, and I told him I thought just he and I could do it. 
In a stunning turn of events, my inner-Martha cross-channeled with my dad in his teacher mode, and I became the cookie Nazi. 
I could hear it falling out of my mouth--I tried to control it, but it still slipped out...
"Measure, Big O.  Measure carefully. 
Read the recipe, Big O.  No, re-read it. 
Measure!!! Measure!!
Sloooowwly,  be very careful... okay, now wash your hands."
We scooped the first glorious spoonful onto the cookie sheet, I let Big O lick the beater (AAAAARGH--raw egg!!! I'm going to give him salmonella----deep breath, unclench).
NO. Something looks wrong--crap! 
I  had doubled the buttah, which meant that after my lectures about the importance of mixing ingredients in the order and combinations listed in the recipe (There are chemical reactions taking place, Big O.  Cooking is SCIENCE!!!!"), I had to dump everything for the doubled batch willy nilly into the mixer and eat a big spoonful of crow.
The cookies turned out kick ass, by the way.  Yeah, we rock.
20 years ago, when I was in high school (okay, can I tell you how much it hurt to type that?), my dad and I were hanging out, wasting time, right around Christmas time.  My father had a wild hair to decorate the Christmas tree at the air ambulance hangar with HOMEMADE, CRAFTY ornaments.  Let's make angels out of finger splints, and wind curlex around for garland, and Oh, this is gonna be swell!
(Please note that I have inherited this gene, which has morphed into the birthday parties from hell with fear factor/alien/hello kitty themes)
My dad borrowed my mom's hot glue gun for the occasion, and then proceeded to give me a twenty minute lecture on glue gun safety.  I grinned and told him I'd been using the glue gun for years, I thought I could handle it. 
"Jen, this glue gets seriously hot.  You can get a second degree burn--AAAAIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!"
My dad looked down in horror at the glob of glue he had applied to his middle finger instead of the angel's wing.
He tried to shake it off, then used the index finger of his other hand to wipe it off.
"AAAAIIIIEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!"  Now staring in horror at the other hand.
What could a smug teenager do, but turn on the cold water and choke out through the laughter,
"Dad, hot things BUUUURN."
I can still tell him that to this day and we both crack up.
I don't know that Big O is going to chide me to measure carefully for the rest of my life, but it was definitely one of those moments for me.
Dork Pride, baby.  It's in the genes.


SQT said...

OMG! That is so funny. My husband and I do this to each other all the time. You're supposed to do it this way not that way only to have to correct ourselves five minutes later. But watch out if we're right, we'll never let you forget it!

Ash said...

I have a fart joke with my mom:
Mom, say fart.
No, pass gas
mom, FART
No, pass gas
SAY FART and I'll shut up.
Fine, bring me down to your level.Fart, are you happy now?
very much so, Mom.

My mother has a thing about grammar.